For nearly 55 years of my life, almost no one knew that I possessed any particular artistic talent. Me included. Oh, I had dabbled with drawing and painting as a youth. I sketched "Winky" and was accepted into the 'Draw Me' Art School. My Mom and Dad beamed with pride, undaunted by the pesky fact that the program accepted 100% of all applicants whose parents showed an aptitude to spend money. They gladly ponied up for my art classes. In retrospect, it's a wonder that I wasn't the next Monet by the age of ten.
There were hints that the right side of my brain wasn't there merely as a landfill for the stuff the left brain discarded after weighing it, measuring it, and finding it to be rubbish. I have toyed around on the piano some. I write a little. My friends who've seen me decorate a house will tell you I have a good sense of color and know where the ottoman should go.
I can't really explain what made me stop at the art store that day. I just felt a sudden, inexplicable need to paint. So, like any artist, I analyzed the hell out of it.
What this situation needed was rational thought, because emotion was running rampant and had to be squelched.
Logically, tools would be needed. I approached this with extreme caution, prepared for this moment by a lifetime of training in economics and manly emotion-repressing. I bought the economy sampler pack of oil paints, a sensible assortment of cheap brushes, and a few sale-priced canvas boards. I was now ready to paint, but my investment-both financially and emotionally-was placed with a stop-loss order to limit my downside risk.
What happened next is impossible to explain, but incredible to feel. The moment my brush first touched that canvas, energy ran through me. And it continues every single time I paint. When I lay my brushes aside, I look forward to the next time I get to paint again. I hope this feeling never stops.
So why art? Why now? Why me?
Because it makes no logical sense. It just feels right.