When I was a little girl I wanted to be an artist.
I would draw and colour and cut and stick and create… My first commissions were requests from friends to ‘do the people’ in their classroom projects. I took pride in my equipment; a well stocked pencil case with pin prick sharp colouring pencils and pens that I only ever lent to people who could swear on their life to colour with in the same direction. Summers were spent transforming rubbish rejected by the rest of the house into anything and everything else.
As a teen, photography was my medium. Never without my camera, I would observe my changing world from behind a lens. Documenting each day with snaps that, in the days before digital, I would wait patiently for before devouring. My bedroom became my gallery: ceiling to floor images spoke of my life, love and everything else.
Obviously, art became my favourite subject. Guided by my trusting teacher and in fierce competition with my close friend, I would experiment and explore. A setting of stacks of dated newspapers, the tinny sound of cheap speakers and the oh-so-lovely smell of white spirit became my sanctuary. I would lose myself in books and galleries as inspiration struck.
But it just didn’t stick.
From there I wandered. Lost my focus. Not quite falling out of love but I was certainly playing away. And then, scared to commit, I gave up on my childish dream.
But here I am now hooked on something else. Words flow and I realise, even without my dream, I’ve never broken that habit. Never mind what medium, art is just an outlet for searching for something in our own lives.
Something that is beautiful because it is true and greater than ourselves. Something that resembles our dreams.