Oh, how artsy. NOT!

When we started moving around so much, I left behind so many of my interests and talents. I never came back to band, and I also stopped painting. It's a shame that I was only able to continue what my parents forced me to do, but not what I enjoyed doing.

I learned to appreciate painting when I was about 10. I was already a pianist and my mom could tell that that route was hopeless for my brother. So she put him in art classes instead. The first piece he brought home was an acrylic landscape of mountains with a log cabin in the foreground at one third. It actually looked good for his first time. In fact, it looked like an adult helped him, because he was only 6 at the time. But my parents gushed, praised, and showed off that log cabin to anyone with eyes. One day, we came to pick him up and went into the studio to see his progress. I found the chubby teacher painting for him while talking to him in a high pitched cooey voice. When we approached her, she told my mom that "learning how to paint is like learning how to drive a car". No it isn't. So we stopped going there.

My piano teacher referred us to a beautiful little Indian lady that painted masterpieces in the pool house behind her mansion. Her name was Mrs. Sri. Just remembering the place gives me the feeling of euphoria. Everything was slow and silent in her studio and it always smelled like art. I marveled at what she can do and asked my mom if I can have just one class with her.

That day, we did pastels and my first piece was pandas in a bamboo jungle. Art was so delicate and slight. Every movement of your hand was evidence on canvas. Every shade had to be blended according to your eyes. I was hooked. I came back for acrylics, and then she said that my hand was steady enough to try watercolors. I learned how to "float" watercolor and thought it was the coolest thing.

My brother stopped taking lessons at some point in all this, but I didn't notice.