On page 17 of Flower Guide is a painting of a Cat-tail and the origins of the herb. It is such a simple plant, the lines, the color.
As a child I drew pictures of stick figures, blobs, or abstract shapes that were supposed to be my mom's face or other things. In the first grade I learned how to grip a pencil more firmly and developed shapes that actually represented what they were supposed to be. I practiced creating the real shape of my mom's face.
Then I ventured into tracing people in my picture books and chapter books that had sparing black and white drawings in-between pages filled from top to bottom with printed words. Later, I attempted to draw people freehand. Gliding my pencil on paper was the best way to develop my fine motor skills.
One day I flipped through a nature book I found at school, library, or wherever (I can't quite remember) I came across a funny looking brown plant sticking straight up and surrounded by sharp green blades. I took my pencil and paper and studied the picture and drew a line. I repeated theses actions until I drew my first plant, a Cat-tail.
I enrolled in art classes after school. I worked with different mediums: Paper Mache, acrylics, temperas, water colors, clay, oils, Decoupage… I learned that I could use more than a pencil or paint brush to create art. I incorporated leaves, petals, sticks, sponges, toothbrushes, and whatnot to create different textures on canvas, paper, cardboard, or ceramics. I learned how to paint all sorts of plants and flowers more difficult than a Cat-tail.
Grams loved art, another passion I share with her. She had these heavy art books of Monet, Grant, Michelangelo, etc. that lined the bottom of her coffee table. When I visited her and Grandpa I would finger through the books. As I looked through the artworks I found appreciation. At six years old I appreciated art just how I appreciated flowers, ponds, grass, words, and books.
A decade later, when I was helping my family clean out the house Grams and Grandpa used to live in I came across a lot of interesting things. Besides finding boxes full of electric bills from 1951, I found a beautiful wood box with copper hinges. The wood was damaged from staying in the garage for years, perhaps a decade or more. I opened the box and there were rows and rows of paint tubes, all sorts of colors. I picked up one of the tubes and unscrewed the cap. I squeezed out purple paint onto the tip of my index finger. I heard crackles as the paint struggled to come out of the tube. I pinched my finger to my thumb and the dry paint cracked and felt like chalk. The paint was no good, but the box was a treasure.
Along with the box of paints I found an easel, confetti with dry paint. Best of all, I found canvases of paintings, most of them unfinished. The paintings were Grams’ work. One stood out from the rest. I held the rectangular canvas in my hands. The colors were warm, deep, like swirls of dark water. I ran my fingers along the grooves of dry paint and pictured Grams painting each stroke.
I never knew Grams painted until that day. I never got a chance to know her at all. She was a very gentle soul and kept things to herself most of the time. Only once in a while I would see her real self shine through. Now, I have to rely on stories I hear from others and my own memories.
As a child I drew pictures of stick figures, blobs, or abstract shapes that were supposed to be my mom's face or other things. In the first grade I learned how to grip a pencil more firmly and developed shapes that actually represented what they were supposed to be. I practiced creating the real shape of my mom's face.
Then I ventured into tracing people in my picture books and chapter books that had sparing black and white drawings in-between pages filled from top to bottom with printed words. Later, I attempted to draw people freehand. Gliding my pencil on paper was the best way to develop my fine motor skills.
One day I flipped through a nature book I found at school, library, or wherever (I can't quite remember) I came across a funny looking brown plant sticking straight up and surrounded by sharp green blades. I took my pencil and paper and studied the picture and drew a line. I repeated theses actions until I drew my first plant, a Cat-tail.
I enrolled in art classes after school. I worked with different mediums: Paper Mache, acrylics, temperas, water colors, clay, oils, Decoupage… I learned that I could use more than a pencil or paint brush to create art. I incorporated leaves, petals, sticks, sponges, toothbrushes, and whatnot to create different textures on canvas, paper, cardboard, or ceramics. I learned how to paint all sorts of plants and flowers more difficult than a Cat-tail.
Grams loved art, another passion I share with her. She had these heavy art books of Monet, Grant, Michelangelo, etc. that lined the bottom of her coffee table. When I visited her and Grandpa I would finger through the books. As I looked through the artworks I found appreciation. At six years old I appreciated art just how I appreciated flowers, ponds, grass, words, and books.
A decade later, when I was helping my family clean out the house Grams and Grandpa used to live in I came across a lot of interesting things. Besides finding boxes full of electric bills from 1951, I found a beautiful wood box with copper hinges. The wood was damaged from staying in the garage for years, perhaps a decade or more. I opened the box and there were rows and rows of paint tubes, all sorts of colors. I picked up one of the tubes and unscrewed the cap. I squeezed out purple paint onto the tip of my index finger. I heard crackles as the paint struggled to come out of the tube. I pinched my finger to my thumb and the dry paint cracked and felt like chalk. The paint was no good, but the box was a treasure.
Along with the box of paints I found an easel, confetti with dry paint. Best of all, I found canvases of paintings, most of them unfinished. The paintings were Grams’ work. One stood out from the rest. I held the rectangular canvas in my hands. The colors were warm, deep, like swirls of dark water. I ran my fingers along the grooves of dry paint and pictured Grams painting each stroke.
I never knew Grams painted until that day. I never got a chance to know her at all. She was a very gentle soul and kept things to herself most of the time. Only once in a while I would see her real self shine through. Now, I have to rely on stories I hear from others and my own memories.
