Crumbs.

Aunt Shelby, October, 2014.

I have a big family.

Upgrades.

Buried Treasures (2014). 

Wood, Polymer Clay, Acrylic, Scenic Cement, Fine Turf.

I made this.

Last October, we bought a little seafoam-green ranch home, with a little fenced in yard, a little kitchen, and the littlest of bathrooms (complete with Pepto-Bismol-Pink tile).

The first house I lived in was also a mid-century ranch home. My mom remembers it as a mess of a house, always needing one thing or another, crowded, dated, dirty. I, on the other hand, remember this house as being just right. In a town where the streets were alphabetically sorted, I grew up in the N's (that's Niagara for you Park Foresters that may be reading). Beyond the backyard was a steep, grassy hill. The grade school was at the bottom of that hill. I remember my best-friend-and-next-door-neighbor, Teddy, and I scampering down that hill towards the school, lunchboxes in hand. It's hard to tell if those memories are real or fictional, but they do seem nice.

Sometime after Teddy had moved away and before fifth-grade graduation, I found a box of partially-used cans of spray paint in the garage. This was also around the time I was fond of turning oversized cardboard boxes into living arrangements in the backyard. Rain, of course, had a detrimental effect on cardboard housing. So, after a heavy rainshower, here I am, hanging out in my decked-out box, in the garage, listening to tapes on my little pink boom box (the one with the blue button that my dad let me pick out at Radio Shack). Probably Pet Shop Boys or my sister's copy of Depeche Mode: Some Great Reward or that Elton John tape that Kitty left for me to play. I remember deciding I was going to paint the outlet. Something small, and I'll only be improving it, so, mom will love it. Sprayed it white, then polka-dotted it with black. Voila! A masterpiece.

Wait. I got white paint on the wall, too. I should make that look intentional.

No idea what I was doing or how to use spray paint, I went nuts. I covered an interior wall of the garage in spray paint. I felt proud and terrified at the same time. I moved from color to color, just trying to create patterns and balance on the wall. The more I painted, the more anxious I became at what my mom's reaction would be, and the more compelled I was to keep working on it, keep improving it.

See, I always wanted to be an artist. I did not always know what it meant to be "an artist," but it wasn't until grown-ups attempted to steer me in other directions that I considered "other" careers. "Don't be an artist? OK. I'll be a fashion designer. What? No? OK, I'll be an architect. Geometry, you say? Nevermind...how about singing?" I never knew how to be anything but an artist, but I don't know if I ever knew how to be "an artist" either. Confusing.

I don't remember what the wall looked like in the end. I remember neon green, leftover paint from my pink bicycle, possibly some oranges...I remember worrying that I was in serious trouble. This might be the best part of this story: I wasn't in trouble. My mom wasn't thrilled with the overall design, but I remember her telling me that she knew me, that she knew I needed to do these things sometimes, and that she was proud of me. I think this was also followed by some safety instructions for using spray paints and a little bit of a lecture about the wall being hers, something like "You probably should have asked for permission, but we should rebuild the garage anyway."