I always wanted to be a painter. I was born in Port Chester, NY.  My father was a real renaissance man, giving me the chance to enjoy and learn about science and art, history and gardening, mechanics and sports. He was a painter.

 

It was he that first taught me to paint. My original medium was oils, because that is what my dad painted with.  I can still see his huge oak easel and smell the linseed oil and turpentine. Although I desperately wanted to have the talent my father and younger sister obviously had, it was evident even to me, a 12 year old, that my painting was nothing special.

 

When I was a child, I thought that whatever came from Dad’s brush was paradise and that I could never accomplish anything like that.  I couldn’t even draw a straight line.

 

But the colors of the paints, and the infinite variety of what you could put on the canvas always intrigued me, making a flat surface appear round, it was trickery wasn’t it? Yes. It must be, but I wanted to learn how to do that myself.  

 

An art class in college only solidified what I thought was already a given, I had no talent for painting.

 

Still it would draw me to it.  Visits to art museums and watching what my sister could do always made me wish I could too. How could that art gene completely miss me?

 

Even so I was a very creative person, embroidery, knitting, needlepoint and sewing. I could take construction paper, scissors and glue and make two very nice Halloween costumes. Why couldn’t I paint?

 

With two creative daughters going to the art supply store, and all those colors, the paints, the brushes, I was teasing myself, I was trying to coax what I hoped was the hidden artist within me.  Some people were late bloomers; maybe I was one of those?

 

At the age of 45, I was between jobs and had free time to on my hands.   I found Frank Clarke an Irish watercolorist on PBS and every afternoon at 2 watched him tell me that painting was fun and easy. So when I had enough extra cash saved up, I went to the local art supply store and bought the items Frank told me were the minimum I needed. Every afternoon I stood at my makeshift easel (a 6 foot pool table) and painted my heart out.

 

I found I really enjoyed it and I was receiving praise for my work from my family and friends. My husband helped my set up a studio in our den, and my kids gave me constructive criticism.

 

Soon I was experimenting and using new techniques. Reading everything I could and asking questions of other artists. I had my husband taking reference photographs for me, and I was using the pictures in nature magazines for ideas on landscapes, my favorite painting subject.

 

I have since sold several of my paintings and received a third place at the Long Island Fair for one of my landscapes.

 

I am still learning, and have not stopped experimenting.  Being a self taught artist is tough, because I have no formal training to fall back on, I have to rely on my judgment, but I must say that it has been the best time of my life.

 

I have discovered that I need to paint. I am essentially a creative person, surrounding myself with color and texture in my home and my wardrobe.  I need to paint; I need to express myself with color and shape.

 

I hope that my paintings will bring as much joy to the viewer as they have to me the creator.  It seems that the art gene, didn’t skip me after all, it just took it’s time showing up.