...when..

When Gretchen´s talent was recognized by teachers, both my parents stepped forward to claim responsibility. As a child my mother had shown a tendency for drawing and mud sculpture and could still amuse us with her speedy re-creations of a popular cartoon woodpecker. Proving his to be a latent gift, my father bought himself a box of acrylic paints and set up his easel in front of the basement TV, turning out exact copies of Renoir cafes and Spanish monks brooding beneath their hooded robes. He painted New York streetscapes and stagecoaches riding into fiery sunsets - and then, once he´d filled the basement walls with his efforts, he stopped painting as mysteriously as he´d begun. It seemed to me that if my father could be an artist, anyone could. Snatching up his palette and brushes, I reteated to my bedroom, where, at the age of fourteen, I began my long and disgraceful blue period.



Me Talk Pretty One Day, Twelve Moments in the Life of the Artist, by David Sedaris