I used to be an artist. I don’t know how accomplished I was, enough I guess that I thought it might be a career for me. Not to boast (he said proudly), but I was runner-up for Governor’s Honors in art in High School. During my late High School experience I talked to the Art Institute of Atlanta about the possibility of attending there. I had projects entered in local art shows in Augusta, GA that fared well. But somewhere along the way the wheels came off of that. This is not a regretful admission or a sighing, “If only.” I was just thinking recently about how life changes on us. Something that I was once so passionate about—that I was pretty convinced was going to be the focal point of my life—instead worked to the margin and it’s not a huge deal to me. Maybe it’s like the daydreams that every kid has of being an astronaut, a veterinarian, or the drummer for Grand Funk Railroad: it gets checked by adult realities.
I remember sitting in Mrs. Walters’ art classes at George P. Butler High in Augusta. She probably impacted me more than any teacher I ever had. And it wasn’t the instruction in art as much as the instruction in life. I could sense that she really cared for me—about my development as a person. I fled to Mrs. Walters’ art class as sanctuary just before my evil Geometry teacher, Dan F. had me placed into in-school-suspension for a week. (There was a slanderous accusation that I had been disruptive as he tried to help us learn proofs—allegedly). I remember her concern about the values I reflected when I began to slip away into drugs and alcohol my junior and senior years. She could chide without condemning, and that is a true art.
Once in a while I still sketch. I draw random shapes and forms. Occasionally I think about buying a set of acrylic paints and giving it a go again. Maybe one day I will.
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