What do you want to be when you grow up?

This should be a harmless enough question. For the first twelve years of my life the answer hovered above me in complete clarity. I aspired to be an artist like I aspired to breathe.

Many Sundays in my early childhood were spent at my grandpa’s house with my father’s extended family. My dad is the fourth of five boys. Much like a dog whistle emits a pitch only dogs can hear, my eldest two uncles emitted bad energy only young children could sense. If we ever had to pass by either of them on our way to ‘point B,’ my siblings and I would literally hug the opposite wall in an effort to avoid coming near them within grabbing distance.

It was one of these uncles who stepped in front of me one Sunday and asked the question, “So… what do you want to be when you grow up?” I answered, “An artist.”

My uncle snickered, “You can’t be an artist, you’ll never make any money!”

In the physics experiment that is my life, this one seemingly minor verbal ‘tap’ knocked me off course for a very long time.

Paternal family web aside, it was my father who encouraged me to paint murals around my childhood home… a giant rooster in the hen house, my eight foot tall rendition of Grant Wood’s “American Gothic” in the barn, a less successful river scene on the spare tire cover of our conversion van. To his credit, he recognized my artistic flicker even if I didn’t recognize it in myself.

Toss into the mix one really dynamic high school psychology teacher and the graduated result will be an artist in a psychology major’s clothing. A baggy fit to say the least, but I didn’t see it. In my adult life the urge to make art seeped into all kinds of unlikely and wonderful places, but I still didn’t believe I was an artist. It wasn’t until last year at the age of 44 that the veil lifted. Shame be gone… I have returned to the embrace of my true self. The Prodigal Artist.

Note on the posted picture: This is part of a piece I drew in college. The kids in the back are the two aforementioned uncles frolicking behind a starving child. I have a theory that most young artists lack the life experience to expose the deeper message without being COMPLETELY obvious.