The light-grey clay I was so excited to be squeezing in my hands was cold. My momma sat next to me.
My hero, a true artist, taught me so many creative skills. Spread out supplies on the dining table and go to work creating. There was the Fimo clay, and I still have the tiny couch she made for my dolls. There was learning how to knit and wind a ball of yarn. Learning how to weave baskets from wet wood. How to arrange flowers in a vase. She made whole quilts. She made clothes for me and several times, she even made a matching outfit for my favorite doll.
She drew and drew. She painted in watercolor and oils and acrylic. We’d go to the zoo together to sketch the animals in colored pencils. Sit, observe and draw. From 8 year old me till I graduated high school, we spent hours doing parallel art. I later learned that when I was sketching Bengal tigers and giraffes, my mom was sketching me.
And in every art form that she taught me, she never once devalued the things I created. My creativity is reckless, and I’m sure that I made many errors. I always want to just pour everything out into the container of creation so that it can be dealt with and observed from outside of myself.