I wanted to be an artist all my life. In fact, I wanted to be an artist on about 10 different occasions. I'd change my mind, but I always came back.
When I was young, I'd walk door to door trying to sell my art. I was probably 8 years old. I grew up in Linden Houses, in the East New York section of Brooklyn. My building had 8 floors with 8 apartments on each floor. I had a folder filled with sketches that I'd harass my neighbors with. Some wouldn't even open the door. Others looked at me incredulously when I asked for $1 for a sketch of Bart Simpson that I drew that day in class. Being an artist was hard.
When I was 10, my art teacher recommended my parents enroll me in an art program held at the Pratt Institute. Every Saturday, my father would drive my best friend and I to campus, where we'd spend an hour and a half making things with our hands. It was my very first time seeing so many art supplies in one place. All I'd ever known was a pencil and loose leaf paper. I smiled at the sight of easels and X-Acto knives and rubber cement and cray-pas and different size brushes; oil-based paint, water-based paint, construction paper of all colors and sizes.
I'll be adding more to this story. Stay tuned.