I once aspired to be an artist. I was young and had all these feelings inside of me that needed to be let out. I did not understand those feelings, where they came from, what they meant, how they were pushing me and pulling me like the tides rolling in and out every day. I just knew I needed to let them out. I needed to let them out somewhere outside of me onto something. I loved buying new art supplies especially the physical sensation of having them in my hands: the mix of wax and paper as I rolled new crayons through my fingers; the crinkle of plastic as I opened up a new container of pens, smudging my hands as I pulled off the caps; the rough texture of a fresh sheet of paper as I would glide my fingertips across its surface envisioning a whole new world and endless possibilities in front of me. My parents never really denied me my artistic expression, only at times complaining about the cost and the accumulated waste. In fact, maybe seeing something different in me already that I did not know myself and knowing that I was not enjoying the recreational sports they signed me up for before, enrolled me in drawing classes one summer through the local youth programs, diligently dropping me off and picking me up a few times a week spending the car ride home asking me how I liked it.
Mixed Media Feelings
Mixed Media Feelings
Mixed Media Feelings
I once aspired to be an artist. I was young and had all these feelings inside of me that needed to be let out. I did not understand those feelings, where they came from, what they meant, how they were pushing me and pulling me like the tides rolling in and out every day. I just knew I needed to let them out. I needed to let them out somewhere outside of me onto something. I loved buying new art supplies especially the physical sensation of having them in my hands: the mix of wax and paper as I rolled new crayons through my fingers; the crinkle of plastic as I opened up a new container of pens, smudging my hands as I pulled off the caps; the rough texture of a fresh sheet of paper as I would glide my fingertips across its surface envisioning a whole new world and endless possibilities in front of me. My parents never really denied me my artistic expression, only at times complaining about the cost and the accumulated waste. In fact, maybe seeing something different in me already that I did not know myself and knowing that I was not enjoying the recreational sports they signed me up for before, enrolled me in drawing classes one summer through the local youth programs, diligently dropping me off and picking me up a few times a week spending the car ride home asking me how I liked it.