ART

I have studied art, artists and art history for almost fifty years. Art is my passion. When I was pregnant with my first child, Billy, I worked in the town library. Ms. French, the librarian, allowed me to paint posters for book displays. My paint drippings resembled those of Jackson Pollock. Bless her heart. Ms. French was blind as a bat. She and I loved my posters. The remainder of the rural townspeople had other opinions, but at least they kept it to themselves.

To date, I have written two books framed in art, Renaissance Woman and Ivey Hayes, the Art of Living. I had presumed my artistic abilities were limited to enjoying and studying art but did not include its creation.

In April of this year, I joined other women in an art class. I enjoyed talking to the women, particularly Patti, the teacher. I was afraid to pick up a brush and was preparing to leave. Then, I saw the other women go to work on their projects. Like an orphaned child, I looked on.

They were painting a bit of everything. Patti said there were no rules in her studio. "Paint whatever comes to your mind," she said. "And you can never use too much paint."

Well that suited me to a T. I love art with lots of color and texture. Van Gogh was my kind of guy.

As I perused the jumbled array of materials, I spied a long, narrow piece of canvas, with stringy edges. I promptly began to separate the loose threads.

For weeks, the color, purple, had come to my inner vision. I was hungry for it. I rummaged through the paints and found a match. I squirted purple on a palette, also known as a meat packaging tray. Finally, I picked up a brush. Floodgates opened within me. I was carried into another dimension of myself, the artist.

Fifty paintings later, I am going strong. As I said earlier, it is never to late to have a happy childhood.