I See The World Different After A Thousand Paintings

47 years ago I squeezed out some white paint onto a glass palette I'd made for myself. Cleaned it every night after a day of painting. For at least a couple of years I kept it clean.

Then I stopped. The paint I didn't use began to build up. Thousands of paintings came from that palette. Stories from my long-ago past and stories I was living through at the moment are in that palette. A lifetime of learning came from those mounds of dried paint. Looking across them there were still-life set-ups of family treasures, young ladies with inspiring stories and childhood memories rising from the fresh colors I laid out every morning. The eyes that I had as a young aspiring artist see the world different after a thousand paintings. Painting has given me a clearer understanding of the world I live in and it has softened my views on things I disagreed with.  

Painting has been my support in hard times and my reward for sharing the good times. Good times are what my art is about.  I have turned to my palette for furthering my art education. There is, for me, more knowledge coming from my palette than from any book.  

Stitches In My Shirt

Bird spotting was one of the things I did when my friends were busy doing other things. Riding my bike out to the country with my sketchbook in my backpack, I would try to sketch birds I found interesting to show mom what I'd seen. Bird spotting was the first merit badge I earned as a Boy Scout. My second merit badge was for public speaking - telling my grade school class about the birds I saw.

Had there been a merit badge for fighting I would have earned two in one day. 

I could sit and sketch anything. I just liked sketching things. Sometimes I had to defend myself from the neighborhood bullies, especially when I drew the girl counselors at the local play ground. Some older boys used to try to take the sketches of the girls away and they quickly discovered not to mess with my sketchbook. No matter how many times I was knocked down, I always got up, ready for more. Several times the girls I drew had to rescue me… and then I had to explain torn shirts to mom. Those stitches in my shirts were badges of honor. 

As more kids moved into the neighborhood I made fewer trips into the country for bird spotting. Baseball was possible now with more kids, so a baseball mitt replaced my sketchbook. Come winter, though, I was back to drawing. My parents bought "How to Draw Horses," and "How to Draw Dogs," books for me. Mom wouldn't buy "How to Draw the Nude." Wouldn’t even let me look at it at the art store…

The horses in the art book looked so much better than the horses on the farms I visited. The dogs were the same, pure pedigree in the art book, mine were just mutts.