My Writing Path (part 4)
I started my college career with the mindset I'd be a psychologist. Then my school adviser pointed out I wasn't taking any psych classes. Funny how I missed that small detail when I filled my schedule with art and writing classes. By my glorious senior year, I had the overalls, the paint-encrusted fingernails, and the too-much-exposure-to-turpentine glossy eyes. I found a home in art, but during my senior show I discovered this home wasn't open to the public.
In order to graduate, we had to put on an art show. I came up with this idea. Goodness, I was obsessed with it. We had live nude models come in during class. Each day, I painted a new pose on pieced together sheets of vellum paper. I put five different poses of the same woman together in a near life-size portrait, affixed the painting to a large sheet of plexiglass, then hung it from the ceiling of the gallery. I had three different walk-around paintings. From the front you saw what I wanted you to see. From the back you saw every paint stroke layered on top of the other. You saw mistakes I covered up. You saw this uncontrollable electric piece of art. People kept coming up to me and looking at me as if my work gave them access to my personal world. Each look pushed me further and further away from my brushes and palette. I didn't want to be part of the show.
It took me a decade of living in my head, only tapping into my creativity for new ways to reach my son through his autism, to find a new outlet, one that would let me direct the eye from an invisible podium. I found writing. My paint brushes became the voice in the jumble of words you throw together. The pretty portrait became my plot and cast of characters. The uncontrollable electric piece of art became my audience.
In order to graduate, we had to put on an art show. I came up with this idea. Goodness, I was obsessed with it. We had live nude models come in during class. Each day, I painted a new pose on pieced together sheets of vellum paper. I put five different poses of the same woman together in a near life-size portrait, affixed the painting to a large sheet of plexiglass, then hung it from the ceiling of the gallery. I had three different walk-around paintings. From the front you saw what I wanted you to see. From the back you saw every paint stroke layered on top of the other. You saw mistakes I covered up. You saw this uncontrollable electric piece of art. People kept coming up to me and looking at me as if my work gave them access to my personal world. Each look pushed me further and further away from my brushes and palette. I didn't want to be part of the show.
It took me a decade of living in my head, only tapping into my creativity for new ways to reach my son through his autism, to find a new outlet, one that would let me direct the eye from an invisible podium. I found writing. My paint brushes became the voice in the jumble of words you throw together. The pretty portrait became my plot and cast of characters. The uncontrollable electric piece of art became my audience.
About Robyn Jones:
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I'd love to hear your story! What made you want to write? What is your process to find the perfect book? Your bookish pet peeves? If you have something to say, send in a guest post to jaclynrcanada@gmail.com.
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