The Tiny Port of Portwrinkle Harbour Painting

Like most artists, I simply have no recollection of being art-less. From scribbling on the blank canvas my parents called the wall, to having an experience with my first ever critic. (A teacher who simply didn't get my drawing of the Frankenstein Monster, telling me to draw something pretty) to making castles out of mud on a rainy day. I am sure we all have similar memories of career advisors laughing at us when we asked how we could become an animator like Disney, wiping their eyes and encouraging us “to stick to the typing dear”(this was in the '70's) but still. It hurts. Having a thick skin becomes a necessity in any career that involves laying your soul bare, to whoever glances in your direction. Apart from the fact that I love creating, loving the feel of the paint across a surface, or the excitement of words that suddenly flow from some unknown point in my head, out, onto the page, I also love the fact that I am not alone, I share these feelings, these frustrations, disappointments, ecstasies that come from the moment of a successful completion of what is, after all, an amazingly human event.