Back when I was in school, most kids loved art class. They saw it as a
legitimate break from the rigors of academics. That is
understandable. I, however, was not overly fond art class. The lone
exception was in grammar school when we were allowed to bring records (vinyl)
from home for the class to listen to during session. Having older brothers
with record collections, I was able to bring groups like ELO, Meatloaf and the
Beach Boys to name a few. The art itself never found any great place in my
heart. It was not that I disliked the subject. Rather, I was, in my
own words “The worst artist on Earth.” I tried clay pottery. It fell
apart in the kiln. I tried sketching. My people looked like stick
figures. I tried painting. The result was essentially stick figures
in color. You name it, I failed doing it. Even finger-painting
looked like a Rorschach ink blob. When high school came I took music
instead of art to avoid the humiliation. Music was easy. I was a
drummer and the teacher did not know how to tie my playing into the pieces so
she would have me do drumrolls through the songs. It was an easy A.
Meanwhile my friends were painting and drawing with charcoal. Their works
were impressive by my standards and I wished I could be an artist.
Meanwhile I was working on a short story idea of mine about a Red
Sapphire. The more I worked on it, the longer it became until one day my
mother said it was simply too large to be considered a short story. I
asked if there was such a thing as a “Long Story.” She politely responded,
“Yes, they are called novels. Abandon the idea of a fragment of a story
and tell it completely.” So I reorganized my work and had a rough
draft of “Quest for the Red Sapphire” written in ink when I was fifteen years
old. I remarked to my mother that I wanted a real artist to do the book
cover one day. She said to me, “It is fine to have a professional do the
illustration but are you saying you are not a real artist?” I explained
that all I did was writing. Anyone could do that. Real artist make
paintings and sculptures. Then she gave me one of those quotes that has
stuck with me for my entire life. “Do you not see? You paint
pictures with words. You may envy painters and sculptors but do not think
that what you do is any less creative. Your gift is different from theirs,
but it is beautiful just the same.” There have been many dark hours when
those words gave me comfort. Every one of us has different gifts that we
use in different ways. Their achievements in no way detract from your
own. Thanks again for the lesson, Mom!
legitimate break from the rigors of academics. That is
understandable. I, however, was not overly fond art class. The lone
exception was in grammar school when we were allowed to bring records (vinyl)
from home for the class to listen to during session. Having older brothers
with record collections, I was able to bring groups like ELO, Meatloaf and the
Beach Boys to name a few. The art itself never found any great place in my
heart. It was not that I disliked the subject. Rather, I was, in my
own words “The worst artist on Earth.” I tried clay pottery. It fell
apart in the kiln. I tried sketching. My people looked like stick
figures. I tried painting. The result was essentially stick figures
in color. You name it, I failed doing it. Even finger-painting
looked like a Rorschach ink blob. When high school came I took music
instead of art to avoid the humiliation. Music was easy. I was a
drummer and the teacher did not know how to tie my playing into the pieces so
she would have me do drumrolls through the songs. It was an easy A.
Meanwhile my friends were painting and drawing with charcoal. Their works
were impressive by my standards and I wished I could be an artist.
Meanwhile I was working on a short story idea of mine about a Red
Sapphire. The more I worked on it, the longer it became until one day my
mother said it was simply too large to be considered a short story. I
asked if there was such a thing as a “Long Story.” She politely responded,
“Yes, they are called novels. Abandon the idea of a fragment of a story
and tell it completely.” So I reorganized my work and had a rough
draft of “Quest for the Red Sapphire” written in ink when I was fifteen years
old. I remarked to my mother that I wanted a real artist to do the book
cover one day. She said to me, “It is fine to have a professional do the
illustration but are you saying you are not a real artist?” I explained
that all I did was writing. Anyone could do that. Real artist make
paintings and sculptures. Then she gave me one of those quotes that has
stuck with me for my entire life. “Do you not see? You paint
pictures with words. You may envy painters and sculptors but do not think
that what you do is any less creative. Your gift is different from theirs,
but it is beautiful just the same.” There have been many dark hours when
those words gave me comfort. Every one of us has different gifts that we
use in different ways. Their achievements in no way detract from your
own. Thanks again for the lesson, Mom!
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