I come from a long line of artists. Painters, on my mother's side. My grandfather was an artist, as was his mother, and two of his daughters - my aunts. (My cousin, Charles Reid, drew the header for my blog above. Pen & ink first, and then he added color and digitized it.) Although my mother is not an artist, she has a gift of perceiving skin tones and seeing the nuances and variances in color. There is no blue, green, red or orange. She sees magenta and crimson...scarlet lake and blue geranium. My sister has inherited the family gift. Her eldest son appears to have the gift as well, which brings it to 5 generations. That I know of.
At a young age I realized I didn't have the family gift. Not only did I not have the family gift, but it appeared that I was much less gifted than the average student in art class. There was something about looking at an object and drawing it that I couldn't manage. Here is a bowl of fruit, here is a vase, here is... Art was intimidating. Daunting. The family gift was not dropped off at my door. Although my mom always embraced whatever I did. She was a supportive mom.
This shows the utter emptiness of the interior... Unending. Forever barren.
In this painting, there is so much pain that the edges of the torso and legs have burst into flames. The blood reflects the loss of hope. The amount of blood symbolizing the many cycles that have gone before.
I'm not sure when, in my cathartic painting phase, I did this painting or the one at the top in pinks and golds, but I like them. Their colors speak to me, still.
I painted for about six months. Suddenly, my need to paint just...stopped. I've never shared these paintings with my family.
It was to be four more years before I became a mother.
Looking at these paintings, touching them, feeling the layers of paint beneath my fingers, I miss it. Perhaps I'll paint again. Thank you Memarie Lane for your curiosity about my painting.
****Note: It's NaBloPoMo, what would you like me to write about?