When I was 5 years old, I declared myself an artist. I got hooked on drawing in kindergarten and went around telling everyone, “I’m going to be an artist”. I would work for hours at this old Mission desk in our basement while my mother hung the clothes to dry. I remember running down after her when I saw the clothes in the basket. The basement was warm and the quiet hum of the powerful boiler brought me a newly discovered and indisputable sense of calm. The smooth oak desk down there had two special drawers filled only with paper and crayons, just for me. My mom set up my out-of-the-way workspace, and each day it was just as I left it, poised and waiting. And then the excitement grew. I made a knuckle sandwich in my left hand holding at least 5 chosen colors of the day. The mix of colors was endless. I must have made a hundred mod 60’s drawings and filled them in. What I realize now is it was my first series, and I was experimenting with color palettes. Looking back, I understand that was my first sacred space.
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