Thursday, August 31, 2006
There was a time, between the ages of eight and eleven, that my parents thought, for one shining moment, I might be a prodigy.
Parents always think that.
Usually it means nothing. For me it meant art lessons.
Here are my "baby paintings" -- paintings, drawings, and etchings I did under the tutelage of a talented, tortured artist who covered her walls in beautiful, terrifying and enormous paintings of war and suffering and fire. Great way for a fourth grader to spend her Monday and Wednesday afternoons right?
Please tell me I didn't peak at ten. That would be a new low...