This week's blog was written by Steve Yarosh who creates original sculpted inlay art.
Art is an Action
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 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.
On my desk there were some markers. Magic markers my mom bought me a long time ago. She had put them in an old coffee cup next to a stack of scratch paper, but I never used them. They seemed like they were for younger kids.
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.
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.
I made a flower – a big happy flower with lots of colors for the petals. And I drew curling clouds with happy faces. I laughed a little at what I’d done. It was fun. It made me feel good!
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.
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.
That’s how I discovered the secret power of art. All along I thought it was about critics and connoisseurs – but I was wrong! It isn’t about them at all. It’s about you . . . and the act of creating. It’s about tapping into hidden places and re-creating yourself. You make your own spirit . . . and art is a way to do this.
Now selling . . . well that’s another question entirely.
Now selling . . . well that’s another question entirely.
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