06/07/2023
As I sit at the table I notice the front of my paint palette. It is exhausted and dirty from years of wear and tear; from fitting in suitcases and backpacks, sometimes forgotten in closets or countertops. The cover is etched with notes from college classes and masking tape. The side is cracked. The insides, though meant to be bare and untainted, are scattered with color and dried paint; waiting to be awakened like memory.
For years I have carried this palette with me. When I first purchased it I did so balking at the idea of a community college education. I was unable to afford an art academy so I settled for what I could afford and commuted from my parents house to school. I became intrigued with the simple complexity of paint and water in layers. It was easy to understand but difficult to achieve and I just couldn’t stop trying.
I began attending a University. In the midst of my education I found myself in the throes of a broken engagement. Friends suddenly disappeared and my world fell silent. When tears were abundant and I had no one to talk to I found my solace in the beautiful mess of midnight and color. There were paintings seen by no one. Art was suddenly the “safe” thing to discuss when the elephant in the room was too overbearing and the shifty glances of family expressed that they didn’t know what to say.
Years later having kids complicated my time to create. Art became both a discipline and an escape. My cluttered world of chaos needed quiet, intentional moments. On sleepless nights there were hushed affairs with expensive brushes beneath dimmed lights; where every creek in th floorboards caused my heart to race with the fear of being caught.
For 2 decades this palette has accompanied me on every adventure. It’s been with me in the good and the trying times, and that is something worth feeling nostalgic about.