Sally, on Art and me
In addition to others facets, including healer, Sally the psychic, also saw me as an artist. She was right. I am. Artist. Incomparable. And that is exactly the only way to have it.
Although I had never really considered it earlier, the artist part is simple enough. I took a bunch of coupons to Michael’s. I bought paper when it was two for one. I bought markers. I bought watercolor pencils, I bought tubes, and hard pans. And honestly it took a couple of years for me to unwrap any of it and push the color around. Oh my goodness … papers. Oh my goodness … synthetic brushes or natural? Oh my goodness … cheap supplies. Oh my goodness ... the good stuff. And even better than everything ... less judgment.
That is how I started. It’s a hobby. No judgment. No stylistic constraints. I’m not trying to be anybody. I’m not smart enough to be able to compare myself to an artist or a genre or a timeframe. Frankly I don’t care. Caring about the definition gets in the way of painting.
If I chose to believe a couple of others, I might think I should make a bunch of paintings and put them in my car and go to venues and sell. Sell. Sell. Sell. What happened to the painting; the art of it?
The only way I was able to start was to suspend judgement as best as possible. It is a think I do for me. It feels good. A couple people think I might have an eye. That’s even better.