One of my early memories of creating and drawing goes back to when I was probably around 6 years old. My mom had pulled out a piece of paper and drew the number 2 on it. And then she showed me I could draw a swan if I continued the line from the tip of the curve and made a beak and then a cheek and then followed the curve of the 2 to make a neck and then continue to form a chest and body, then ending at the tip to form the tail. Taking a 2 and turning it into a bird made my 6 year old brain almost implode. I remember going to school the next day and showing my table and everyone started oohing and aahing and that’s when I started getting known as the one who could draw. The beginning crumbs of my creative identity.
My mom also taught me that if I made stretched out m’s that it would look like birds flying. I brought that information back with me to school as well. More oohs and ahhs. My teacher put my drawing on the board and I remember feeling proud.
Whenever I see swans, I think of my mom and how she planted that seed of creativity in me.
It just occurred to me that birds have been appearing in my artwork since I was six years old. That’s almost 50 years! Makes sense. Birds are our constant companions on the periphery of our lives and I love them and their presence.
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I have been thinking about memory lately. How memory forms who we are and informs who we are. What happens when memories begin to fade? Are we then just empty vessels waiting to be filled?