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Tuesday, August 25, 2020

Autobiographer of a painter

Here's where it all began, at the University of Georgia in Athens.  (Well, actually, it was my daddy who was a student there and we were living in this fashionable apartment in "Married Housing."). Wearing saddle oxfords and a dress, I loved watercoloring my hands. 

First grade caused a detour of many years.  In my first attempt to paint the post office next door to the school (the outlines drawn on a mimeographed page by the teacher), I was chastised for coloring outside the lines, not using "ladylike" faint strokes, and making the red courthouse purple of all things!

The seed for my love of painting went dormant for decades. 

When I met friends who were painters and collage artists, I was fascinated.  Joy gave me watercolor paper and pencils.  Nellie taught me how to collage on playing cards. 

A couple of years ago, I started taking online classes and buying art supplies.  Victoria gave me a blank journal and an afternoon class for me and Pam and Jan.  I loved it so much. 

For quite a while, I was timid around art supplies.  What if I messed up?  What if I wasted them?  

Unreasonably, I figured I'd save them all until I got good enough to justify using them, especially the more expensive ones.  (Then one of the teachers online said, "Don't save your tools and supplies.  Even as we speak, more are being made.")

So now, a few weeks shy of 72,  I am obsessed with gel plates, watercolors, acrylics, water-soluble crayons, Posca pens, and spray inks.  It is such a thrill to wake up and see vibrant pages made the night before.  (This morning's thrill was seeing pages made last night by blowing fluid paint around the page with a drinking straw!) 

All I need now is a pair of saddle oxfords. 


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