Open Writing

My talent for drawing was obvious at an early age. In the first grade I remember creating drawings for the other kids to color. My favorite time in school was when we colored handout sheets or in workbooks. I never asked for art materials at home. I used the backs of used envelopes or scraps of paper to draw on. I felt lucky just to be fed and clothed. Art material would have been luxury we could not afford.

The first real encouragement toward becoming an artist came when I was in the fifth grade and did a pastel painting at school. It was the first time I had ever used pastels and I became more and more excited as my painting of a Western landscape with a horse and rider began to look better with each stroke. I couldn't believe I was creating such a nice scene. I walked around the room comparing my painting to others. My heart beat faster as I realized it was the best but I was careful not to say so. Our teacher, Mrs. Reams, entered the class's artwork in the Alamogordo fair and my painting won a blue ribbon. I was bursting with pride when she handed me that ribbon, for it validated what I already knew—I was good at art. Knowing this allowed me to hope for something better in my life, something to look forward to. Having been ashamed of so many things in my life, I craved admiration and approval. Art seemed to be my best chance at achieving this.

I loved school art projects and I was very competitive. Maybe too much so. In the beginning I annoyed the other students. One day I carved an elephant from a bar of Ivory soap. It turned out to be the best carving in the class and I didn't hesitate to loudly and proudly show it around to everyone. When I came in from recess, my elephant lay, broken in half, on my desk. After that I ratcheted down my pride and tried to be more modest and less vocal about my artistic abilities.