When I was young, I spent more time in my own company and my own fantasies. I had a very creative mind, would imagine all sorts of wonderful things, and was also keenly aware of my father’s artistic ability. When at home, on child watch, he would pick up his drawing pad and pencil, which were never far from his person, and sketch us watching television, sitting with each other on the floor, fighting, capturing us in the moment of whatever we were doing, mostly without notice. But I always noticed. I felt him, like radar, looking at us, studying us, and then looking down at the pad; back and forth, back and forth. I would remain in form and not give myself away and wait until he was finished until his final scrutiny of the paper and last few strokes were applied, and then I would approach him and ask if I could see. I was always blown away by the reality of not only the subjects that he could draw out of blank paper, but how he captured the emotion of each one of us, lined in the faces, the shadows of the number 2 pencil. It was truly amazing and beyond my young mind and I would leave that with him always. It was, without question, his.
Extremely gifted, my father had attended art school with the dream of making that his living, and although he tried for a few years, he did not find it an easy way to support a growing family. As the story goes, (my mother telling my older sister who recently told me), one day, with great anger and frustration, my father took all of his artwork and tools and threw them in the river and walked away from his dream, never to pursue it again in that light. And as long as I knew him, his gift was kept to himself and the quiet time and peace it afforded him.
I, on the other hand, liked to write and doodle; poems, rhymes, short snippets, flowers, animals, trees, and blades of grass. I would section off a piece of my school pads to which I would devote these momentary escapes. This would eventually evolve to quite a bit more landscapes, (never people, too hard), and writing scripts around the age of 11, 12 years old. Full-on scripts with narratives, direction, and inflection around the speaking parts. Do not ask where that came from for I can honestly say, at home, we were not encouraged nor schooled in any way creatively; no money for extra anything, more directed to survival tactics. In school, there was English with poetry and haiku and Art class, but not the kind of art my father did. It was remedial at best; finger paints and colored pencils. I am not sure how or why I would even know how to write a script, and years later, I would see that it actually was the way you wrote a real script. Hmmmm
However, I wasn’t just writing them, I was also producing, directing, acting, and editing them live, (no techno gadgets nor tic tok back then), and spent a whole summer enlisting my younger sister and our neighborhood friend to act them out with me. I remember much bickering about who was going to play whom, most of the parts written for Keith Partridge, Donny Osmond, or a favorite cartoon character. I would write out three copies of the script in anticipation of the next day’s “production”, have the “cast” read their respective lines once we agreed on our parts, and then we would rehearse, with me giving them feedback and direction on making their part believable. By the end of the summer, they were wary of my criticisms of their acting, which was not taken as seriously as I wanted, and my creative bent was put away, to enter another treacherous school year, this time at the lowest rung of Jr. High, and additional home duties such as watching my younger siblings after school every day, cooking dinner every night, cleaning the house and then babysitting for neighbors on the weekends. Yay for me.
It wasn’t until I went into High School that I reconnected to art, but on a higher level. It was in those art classes that we were drawing not only still life, but landscapes, real people from photographs. It was here in this class that I actually saw that I could really draw; not as good as my father but enough that you could tell it went with the photograph it was copied from. And under the encouragement and guidance of my Art teacher, I would improve. At one point, using pastels, we were asked to draw a portrait. Scary, definitely. It’s not like you could erase your pencil lines and do over - guilty! Well, my first pastel was from my own baby picture. Not bad. My final grade, which meant I passed or failed, was a pastel portrait of Marilyn Monroe, from a magazine picture, and I couldn’t believe how it came out or that I actually drew it. It was awarded an A+ but every time I looked at it, it did not seem real or that it had actually come from my two hands. I would come to understand that when I created that picture, I was totally “in the zone”. Later, I would get into oil paints, colored pencils, charcoal, and paint a whole living room wall of my boyfriend's friend, who commissioned me to do the Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon album cover. Now that was cool, but when I did my sketches, especially people, I began to ask my father for help on the features that I couldn’t get quite right, and for a very short window, he shared with me his extraordinary gift.
By the time I left school, I had given away most of my art to my school friends who needed to get a passing grade and was full-time into my nursing career. Whatever art tools and pictures I had in my possession, went into boxes and then over time and many moves, were lost. In my twenties, I was given an extravagant gift from a boyfriend, a Yashica 35mm camera, and never went anywhere without it, producing magnificent pictures of different places and faces. I belonged behind that camera. However, years later, my camera would eventually be sold, which broke my heart, to pay for the simple necessities of a life I was struggling with at the time. But I would write stories, children’s stories and periodically take creative writing classes, just for fun.
As it were, way further south in the northern hemisphere, Ingrid’s mother was a lawyer and her father had his own media company and worked for the local government producing videos for live events. In her early school days, she decided to take elective classes in the arts. In 6th grade, she took a theater course and really liked it. In 7th and 8th, she was studying music when the professor of theater left and a new professor came in. She heard about the different things that he was doing with the theater group and in 9th grade, decided to go back and give it another shot. When this new professor left mid-year, amid a bit of a scandal, (private all-girls Catholic School - need I say more), the Principle asked the group if they felt comfortable creating the school play for the spring, to which the girls replied an emphatic “yes”, (or maybe that was just Ingrid because she likes doing things on her own). It turned out to be a smashing success and the Principle gave them a full class period, each day, in which to work together on all of the school productions for their remaining school years. They never hired another theater professor.
Ingrid read books and articles, did quite a bit of research, and wrote adaptations which she then turned into scripts for her cast. She would go on to direct, produce, write, do the music, lights, and whatever else was required to “get on with the show”. Her original Easter play went on to win an award at a festival and she also produced a Fashion Show to raise money for their productions. However, when it was time to go to University, Ingrid decided on pre-med classes and began college in her country in Colombia and then continuing in pre-med after she came to the US.
Fast forward five years ago.
While working in my cubicle supporting Human Resource systems, a new neighbor arrived that would be occupying the vacant cube across from me; Ingrid. She was on an internship from the college where she was earning her multimedia degree and worked part-time in a medical office. She would be working on video and photography for the company’s social media content and branding. We connected almost immediately and I would help her with some of her writing, eventually sharing with her my book of literary compositions and my lost Yashica camera story. She convinced me to buy a new camera - it took a while - and when she left for the west coast, she very generously recommended me to the event team to do their event photographs which she had been doing voluntarily to help them out. I was nervous on the first shoot. It had been a very long while, this was for real, and I would have to pass the pictures on to Ingrid so she could, first, review them, and then put them in the folders for the media team to use. Surprisingly, I jumped right back into it as if I was still holding my Yashica and was truly touched when Ingrid thought my pictures were good. She was also the one that talked me into this blog - totally her idea - but one that I am so grateful for each and every day because, after all of these years, I have finally figured out what I want to do………..
For some of us, our childhood reveals our purpose, our passion, our dreams, but sometimes life pushes them aside, abandoned, placed on hold, discarded, sometimes never realized, like my father’s. I do believe that what we dream and create in that innocence before adulthood and responsibility take over, is what was truly put in our hearts as our gift to the world and that is never lost. It just might take a while for it to find its way out once again and for another person to help. But better late than never!
Thank you, Ingrid, for finding my lost art ……….
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