My earliest memories of mixing colours was when I was playing on a pile of weathered stumps with a cousin of mine. We had gathered flowers and grasses, squished them, and painted their juices onto the pieces of dried wood.
Somewhere along the way, I forgot about art. For a long, long time.
Immersing myself in art came back as a form of therapy. Dipping a brush in that day’s colour of choice, and feeling the brush move along the canvas.
Then, I took an art class at a local art gallery with my youngest daughter, a high school student at the time. Our instruction, during an outdoor class, asked us to sit and spend 15 minutes looking at the bay in front of us and watch as the different colours appeared.
I thought to myself, ‘I can do this. I need to do this.’ Our basement is now full of canvases. Some I will keep. Some I will paint over.
My father used to tell us stories about how he loved to draw. How he would take pieces of charcoal from the wood stove and draw on whatever canvas availed itself.
As I watch my little granddaughter diligently working on her canvas, I visualize her grandfather working on his.
Groovy Tales of a Well Adult 