How My Mom Taught Us Art

When my mom’s paintings find themselves at art exhibitions, I’m always too happy to have an excuse to be proud of her.

And so it was just this past weekend that I was sweating a river in a douchy outfit, randomly saying French words, treating each artwork like a prince — letting them speak first.¹

But while my parents put a premium on many things, like education and a general distrust of the government, art was never verbally emphasized.

Rather, my mom was just always painting. And through osmosis, my brother and I inherited our own need to create.

It’s midnight as I’m writing this but the blow dryer from my brother’s room tells me only one thing — paint is drying.

And although my mom prefers canvases, my brother exclusively paints mini figurines. Rows of medieval soldiers, armed ghouls, and mech robots, patrol his desk.²

To what end is he building this army, you might ask?

I don’t know. But if I was the patriarchy, I’d be terrified right now.

Anyway, I’m unfortunately the least artistically gifted of the family. I perennially threatened to fail my art classes in school. And so I’m forced to resort to writing — the coward’s medium.³

Still, though, it’s extremely satisfying to materialize parts of myself — to turn a feeling or an expression tangible.

And equally satisfying, or even more, is seeing the people I love, materialized in their art.

Sure, my mom never verbally encouraged me towards art but whether it was her abstract oil paintings or naturalistic watercolors, she put a lot of herself into her paintings.

And they spoke to us.

Thanks for reading and please love yourself!

Footnotes:

1. To be clear, don't think the art is pretentious or douchy. Just the French. I’m kidding! My best friend is French. He just happens to be douche.
2. Of course, I only feel comfortable disclosing this information because he already has a fianceé. You know who also has lots of miniatures, though? George R. R. Martin. He gets other people to paint them and pays them with the knowledge of what truly happens at the end of Game of Thrones
3. It’s a joke. I obviously love writing and writers.