Picasso In the High Chair

From the age of two, my parents knew I would be an artist. There was snapshot they had taken of me in my high chair only wearing diapers, with a paint brush in one hand and the other hand placed on my chin. I looked very deep in thought, probably thinking about which color to use. It started with painting, and then went into drawings that were basically scribbled blobs. My parents never cared; they knew it was creative art. They photo copied my many colored blobs and sent them to all my relatives, pleased as punch that at such an early age their little daughter was a Picasso.
When I got into Elementary they couldn’t keep me from drawing on anything. I would draw on my hands, the walls, they tried to keep me on paper, but I was out of control. My grandma was the one who focused me. We painted a picture of Maine together for the State projects in fifth grade. Once I got my hands on those oil paints there was never a chance for me to turn back, I was an artist.
I was miserable in High School, but instead of focusing on it, I believed in painting. I used the colors and felt my emotions blend on to the canvas, even if sometimes they weren’t all that beautiful. The kaleidoscope of my colors saved me, because through every juncture in my life no matter how challenging I dealt with it through painting.