baby artist

I was going through a box of old photos. The box contained a mishmash of subjects and eras. Few were labeled. But I found a picture of myself holding my published Spots drawing in the Chicago Tribune.

I don’t recall the circumstances of this picture, though it was taken in my Aunt Mary Kay’s backyard. We often spent Sundays at her house, so it’d make sense there’d be a Sunday paper handy. I remember the slightly scratchy feel of the hat’s fabric. That’s about all, really.

My parents never discouraged me from making art. Dad would bring home reams of used dot matrix paper from work so I could draw on the blank side. I received crayons and pencils as gifts. Many years later it felt like a dark bitter irony when I realized my mom had pushed me into English lit. That was what she liked, what she understood. It came to me effortlessly and she didn’t want me to struggle. But aren’t one's parents supposed to push them to become a doctor or lawyer? To use my English degree: I shall always wonder about the road not taken.

Ah well.