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.

In the beginning… I was an artist.

Among my faded patchwork of memories from kindergarten stands an easel. There may have been two or three easels, but really there was THE easel… my easel. When free-time was announced kids would scramble to their bliss of choice and I would plow over anybody who got between myself and the easel. This is a skill I would later hone as a hockey defenseman. Don’t let anyone get between you and your goalie. I can imagine my five year old mindset being as physically passionate about defending my easel.

I vaguely remember the teachers suggesting I try other activities at free-time. I think I may have even been banned from the easel for a few days, but like stopping the rain from puddling, it didn’t last long. And, I suppose, glaring holes through the heads of anyone else using my easel while I halfheartedly played with the activity du jour contributed beautifully.

It was what it is.

I’m wondering if it’s really that simple. For all of the billions of dollars we spend trying to find ourselves, could it really be as easy as looking to the beginning?

I picked up my key to the studio today. And so I begin where I left off… the Prodigal Artist.