A frustrated artist …

That’s me in the photograph. I was a first time flower girl; and it was one of my great uncles who was getting married. He was only 15 months older than my mother.

Can you imagine? The uncle and the niece were probably in diapers at the same time. It’s unsettling enough to think of your parents having sex, but your grandparents. And your great grandparents. Good God!

You will never know how much I hated that dress. It was tulle, but it was rough and scratchy, and it felt like I was encased in barbed wire. For most of the night I squirmed and twitched like I was possessed. And when we finally got Continue reading

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Day 83. Frustrated Artist

In yesterday’s post (addendum) I mentioned that I had originally wanted to be an art director, not a writer.  My mother used to tell me I never stopped drawing.  She always said that all my school notebooks were covered with doodles, from first grade through to the day I graduated from high school.

My grandmother had two drawers in a chest in her den, that were reserved for endless pieces of paper; and all my coloured pencils.  My father’s younger brother was in the stationery business; and once a week, like clockwork, he dropped by to bring me a fresh supply of paper.  I went through reams and reams of it.

As a child I went to art classes at the Montreal Museum of Fine Art; and my favourite subjects in school were art and English.  Always.  At the summer camp I went to, we put on a major production each year.  A play, usually one that had been on Broadway, and we Continue reading