How I Became an Artist.

Written by R.M. Hamilton

“The only time you ever shut up,” said Mum bitterly, “was when you were asleep. You didn’t do anything early, except talk.

I was inclined to think all these years on, she might like to drop the subject, but she seemed to rejoice in the opportunity to re-air her grievances. “Of course I find you very interesting now,” continued Mum with a mean little look in my direction. “But when you were a kid, you were the absolute pits.”

I thought about asking what kind of ‘pits’ she was talking about, and then decided not to. I probably wouldn’t like the answer, I decided.

And yet it was precisely this large, active mouth of mine that resulted in me becoming an artist. I don’t think I ever would have picked up a coloured pencil, had it not been for my abnormally large mouth.

There are children who announce to the world early what God has put them on earth to do by pretty much popping out of the womb doing something impressive.

My parents were not so lucky. None of us were shining academic stars in our youth, and to hear Mum tell it, I was pretty sure I had been particularly lacking in the shiny stuff.

But there are other ways of finding out what kids are made to do.

“Ruth,” said Mum sternly to a four-year-old me, “you have been talking all morning. I can’t really handle this anymore. I’m going to paint the outside of the house, just outside your bedroom. You can stay in the bedroom, and I don’t want you to stick your head out of the window and talk to me, while I paint. I need some time today, without your voice in it.”

She led me to the bedroom and pointed at a pile of paper and coloured pencils. “You can draw Mummy a nice picture,” she continued in a gloomy, hopeless sort of voice.

I had never drawn anything before. I pointed this out to her.

“Well maybe you should start,” said Mum fiercely.

I opened my mouth to argue, but Mum held up her hand. “Ruth, I really need to not hear your voice right now.” She took a deep breath and spoke in a painfully polite tone. “If you stick your head out that window for ANYTHING OTHER THAN A FIRE…. (she glared), there will be consequences. Do you understand me?”

“Yes Mum.”

“Good, I’ll be back in soon.”

Mum left, and I sat on the rug and scowled at the nice little pile of art supplies Mum had thoughtfully arranged for me on the floor. This was so unfair. I didn’t want to draw a dumb picture.

I wanted to talk to Mum. And I could hear the tantalizing sound of her moving around outside the window, with the soft thoonking sound her stick made, mixing up a bucket of paint.

Well, she couldn’t make me draw a picture, could she? She would come in and ask to see my picture and I would show her a blank piece of paper.

That would teach her.

I smiled a happy smile as I thought about the crestfallen expression that would cross her face.

It was a good plan.

But it was SO BORING, just sitting there, waiting for Mum to come in from painting the house.

I eyed the paper and pencils thoughtfully. Perhaps I should have a go at this ‘drawing business’ after all.

I picked up a pencil and drew a large oval. Then I added a head and some arms and legs. I drew on a face and filled the tummy in with pink and yellow horizontal stripes.

I finished it off by giving my creation a face. A stout man smiled up from the paper at me. I added a few fingers.

I looked at my first ever drawing. I was quite pleased with it. Outside the window, I could hear the swish, swish of Mum’s paint brush. I wanted to lean out the window and show her my picture, but she had been very clear she only wanted to discuss fire.

This was not fire and I had never known Mum to not deliver on the promise of ‘consequences’.

Still, I wanted to show her my first ever picture. She would probably be hateful about it, and I wouldn’t like what she said or did, but I wasn’t really afraid of her either.

I leaned out the window. “Mum!” I yelled.

Mum’s head jerked up from the wall she was painting. Her face wore just the sort of expression I had expected.

“Ruth, I told you,” began my exasperated parent.

I waved my picture at her. “I drew something, Mum.”

Mum’s mouth fell open. That was a new one for me. I assumed it was the harbinger of some really awful punishment. I knew full well I was disobeying her.

“RUTH!” yelled Mum. “THAT’S REALLY GOOD!”

Wow.

This was not the reaction I was expecting.

“You even added fingers!” gasped Mum, almost dancing with joy. “That’s advanced for your age! You did something advanced!”  

I had no idea what ‘advanced’ meant, but I did gather that I wasn’t getting punished for my disobedience.

Also, Mum was engaging in conversation, willingly and without that unpleasant expression she so often wore.

I decided to see if I could extend our chummy little chat.

“I LIKE drawing, Mum!”

“You’re VERY good at it!” said Mum, ecstatically.

“I think I’m going to draw and draw and draw,” I continued. “Do you like the pink and yellow stripes on his tummy?”

“I DO!” said Mum. “I like them so much, Ruth. Well done! I’m so proud of you.”

I smiled happily. This was clearly the way to deal with Mum.

Mum smiled happily, too. For the first time in four years, she had a reason to hope she wasn’t raising the village idiot.

“What you did is called, ‘art’”, said Mum reverently.

“I like art!” I shouted triumphantly.

That turned out to be very true. I’ve never stopped liking it.

Of course, I may have liked it a bit too much when I stole that painting from the local Kindergarten, two months later.

But that is another story for another time.

The writing belongs to R.M. Hamilton and may not be reproduced without written consent. The picture of the art studio was graciously provided by Pixabay.