I came to painting unconventionally, with no memories of childhood painting aptitude and little painting experience outside of my elementary school art classes. I’ve always liked to draw, but my ability to render what I saw was never remarkable. Playing sports and being a good student were more my things.
There is some photographic evidence that hints of my early interest in painting, but being an artist was never part of my identity. I’m not sure what it would mean to claim that identity at age 50. Nor do I really feel I must do so, at least not any more than I’ve defined myself in other ways. Am I a painter? Someone who likes to paint? Is there really a difference?
I don’t know. I’m just curious about these sorts of things, most especially how each of us develops and claims aspects of ourselves that have been unknown or previously dormant.
Moving is tough, more so when you learn the new owners don’t want any of the remnants the last owner left behind (which in our case includes a lot of unused house paint, among other things that are costly to dispose of). After an initial meltdown, many days of exhaustion/tearfulness, and no time made for the creative things that fuel me, I turned the garage into an impromptu studio and made this painting using some of the paint to be discarded. Lemons into lemonade.
I will treasure this as a piece that holds the many wonderful memories of the house we’re leaving and symbolizes where we are heading. The surface is quite rough and highly textured (largely due to the limited paint application tools and the viscosity of house paint), but even this seems metaphorically apt.
Celebrating my 50th birthday today in the most perfect way for the day, as required – packing boxes, taking out the trash, connecting with so many of the people I love, and painting.