I was twenty when we got married and forty when I finally found my 'retirement job' working at a large mental hospital for the criminally insane. That gave me twenty years to try life my way. Since I was a little girl I wanted to be an artist and a writer. I was a dreamer, still am. My mind was full of 'bright ideas' that often cost me more than a profit. Let me rephrase that. I never cleared a dime on my creations but I had a wonderful time trying.
I worked at a shoe factory off and on for five years when we needed extra money. It was the wrong job for me. I hate factory work...loved the people; hated the job. Standing in one spot all day long; doing the same thing over and over is pure torture for a person like me. My off and on career there was less than stellar. I was fired once, and walked out three times. The longest I stayed employed there was 15 months. Tommy was laid off and I had to work. We needed the insurance. When we got back on our feet and he was hired as a corrections officer, I quit again. In fact, I stuck my head in the office door and told them "Do not, under any circumstances, hire me again." They laughed and said, "We will see you in about six months." Wrong!!! I never went back.
A couple of days after I quit, Tommy came home from work. I was waiting with coffee and my new plan. I wanted to do portraits in pastels. I fiddled with art off and on since I was a kid and after we married I continued, but I wasn't serious about it. We began our family and I really didn't have time to paint. I was happy and this was fine with me. This time I was serious. I wanted to give my dream a try. Tommy listened and was supportive. He told me to give it a shot. He always preferred having me home. The next day after the girls left for school and Tommy went to work I turned our dining room into my art room. I had a huge picture window that faced north. Two small round wooden wire holders Tommy bought home from the phone company soon became end tables. I painted them and put a plastic table cloth over the tops. I had a place for pastels, paints, photos, lamps and a thousand other pieces of 'stuff' I needed to help me work. I had my tackle box from college where I kept all my art supplies when I was an art major. It was a little worse for the wear but it was filled with memories from another life. I still have it--somewhere. I assembled my easel. Soon I was ready to start to work. I have always loved the angled faces of Native Americans. I don't know how many portraits of Indians I did and gave them all away. If someone said, "Oh I love that!!" I gave it to them. My work was a long way from being ready to sell. I was satisfied with the fact they liked what I had created. And they took it home with them AND put it up in their homes. It never did take much to make me happy.
One thing led to another. I did a photo of Lisa her freshman year of high school. My favorite was of Willie Nelson. Tommy hates to hear him sing. That portrait has a long on going story in our home. I think it is the best portrait I ever did. Tommy calls him that ole SOB. I have hung him all over the house in every room except the bathroom and our bedroom. The two places Tommy could not stand to look at him. Besides, who wants a photo of Willie Nelson hanging in the bathroom? Right now Willie has a permanent home in my sun room.
I packed away all my sketches and trial runs over the years, when I went to work for the state, I had weird hours, kids in school who wanted to talk to me when I came home. The time for art was suspended indefinitely. Last Tuesday I found my old art work from 1985-1989. Most of the other pieces were given away to friends. I kept a few to remember a good time in my life. Below are a few of those old memories. They are a little worn and faded in places but are still good memories to me. I will forever be a work in progress, no matter what I do.
Lisa's photo aged her more than I wanted. Once again much to learn.
Nancy Ballard's graduation photo. It is a pencil sketch. I never did get the pastel started.
A hero from a book I read. I have no clue the name of the book, but I sure do remember the hero.
Some old cowboy who had seen better days. The picture has too.
.Girl in a mirror. These photos have no value at all. I see a million mistakes and yet they are priceless to me. They are from a time when I was in my 30's and was the artist I wanted to be. I remember I was always dressed in jeans, a denim shirt and was barefoot with paint on my clothes and chalk on my skin. I had candles lit, a room full of plants and Lisa's jam box playing songs I loved. Those are good memories. I am glad the pictures made it through the years. How they survived I will never know. I will take better care of them now. I started painting when I retired. Now I have a fascination with French and Italian homes and streets. Adobe, archways Mexican pots of flowers and broken steps are what catch my eye. I also have a jealous lover who wants my time and I am inclined to see he gets more than his fair share---and that is writing. Life has been good to me.
