Blown Away

No, I don't look like that.

When I was in high school, I was introduced to art. I'd never been allowed to take what were deemed "frivolous" elective classes, but by the last two years of high school, I had taken all the classes there were to take and finally thought I'd give art a looksie. By the middle of the first semester, I'd been pulled off of the class syllabus and given a corner of the studio with an easel and all the paints I could reach from those back wall cupboards.

The first thing I ever painted in my life was a watercolor in the pointilist genre, the thematic unit of the class. We each got our 18 x 24 paper, rinsed it, stretched it, taped it, and let it dry over night. By the time I got my corner of the studio, my canvases were changing in medium as well as size. I bought large matte boards and eventually slats of plywood. My teacher finally had to put a stop to the growing trend. There was no where to store my paintings.

I honestly believe I would have continued to let my canvases grow. I would have eventually wanted a wall. But at no time did I ever make the connection with graffiti or even think of trying spray cans, even when I experimented with the air brush. Maybe it's in my genetic build. Maybe all those muralists brushed off on me in some imperceptible way.

I still want a wall. I have absolutely no idea what I'd put on it, or if it's even in me anymore. But the idea of my own wall still makes me salivate.