I don't have to publish this, but I want to, though it is a bit scary for me. Is the bittersweet too hard to swallow? I hope this doesn't seem whiney or pathetic, but it feels so true for me. My life and my art would not have been the same if it had always been accepted and supported.

I first met Art in kindergarten, when Teacher picked my bright red (plus yellow, orange, and probably a little blue) abstract paintings to display on the wall.  My other love at that time was the set of blue “ocean” blocks that became the harbor for our wooden boats, and my mother had difficulty pulling me away from them when it was time to go home.

I painted a red barn, which I loved, when I was in the fifth grade, but it didn't get chosen, and the teacher gave me a C in Art. The next semester, with another teacher, I painted the same red barn, and it was put into a display case in the hallway - and the A I felt I had always deserved. (Vindication!)

As a sixth-grader, I painted the Cathedral in Mexico City’s Zocalo from a photo, and this piece was sent around the world with the International Red Cross art exhibit.

I went through a fashion obsession at age 11, and designed a line of clothing, called “Daisy”, in the privacy of my own room. 

At around the same time, my father, thinking I would make something naïve, asked me to design an album cover, but I was already too old to make the kind of childish art that he needed.

“Go draw” was my parents’ solution to my being sick, having no friends, or just being bored.

As luck would have it, I married a guy who insisted on decorating his own way. 

As a high school teacher, I turned down several opportunities to teach art classes (too risky, financially) before I finally accepted, then doing so well at it that the art teacher with seniority took over my position – and I had to wait a few more years for another chance.

Even so, I kept in touch with Art (an “affair) by incorporating it into my lesson plans, even though my students didn't always appreciate it in English classes. On weekends and vacations, "my Art" took the form of “interior landscapes” using highly symbolic metaphoric images to express the confusion and isolation I was experiencing inside.

Retirement from teaching has finally allowed the sprouts to flower, and I have given myself permission to spend as much time as possible with Art. Now, I live with Art - Art is my perfect home, populated with perfect houses, in a perfect town, with perfect weather – all made from cast-offs and rejects. Art is my True Love.