I remember the first time my parents took me to an art gallery. I was 11-years old and I noticed right away that my mom and dad behaved differently there – more formal and polite. Not like they were at home. This was more like church -- stuffy and fake.
And there was a lady in a long dress who worked there. She wore her hair high on her head and smelled like perfume. But she was seemed a little mean as she walked around pointing at pictures and talking -- as my parents nodded politely and followed. I looked at one of the pictures she pointed to. It felt grey and sad – and I turned away and looked out the window. A bus rumbled by. I wondered where it was going . . . .
When we got home I changed back into my jeans and went outside to play. None of my friends were home. There was nothing to do, and I kept thinking of that lady in the gallery and how weird my parents acted there. I went back inside – to my room. I laid on my bed and wondered what I should do.
I sat down at the desk and dumped the markers out of the mug. They rolled across the surface of my desk with a nice rattling sound.
I grabbed a sheet of paper and started to draw.
So I did it again. Only this time with trees and birds, a big mountain and the sun shining over all of it. I redrew my world . . . and I was okay again.
Now selling . . . well that’s another question entirely.