When my daughter was about seven years old, she asked me one day what I did at work. I told her I worked at a college — that my job was to teach people how to draw. She stared at me, incredulous, and said, “You mean they forget?”
Howard Ikemoto was my first drawing teacher when I was 19. Stroke of luck, that. He was such an amazing teacher, that I didn’t need the passage of time to know just what a lucky student I was; I knew it at the time. I recently came across some old sketchbooks from then, and realized just how much I carry my teachers voices with me as I go on with my life and my work. I remember Howard telling the above story one day in class.
One of the things I love best about making art is the way it keeps me integrated: the four year old me, the 15 year old me, the 19 year old me, the 40 year old me. When I draw or paint, it’s easier to know that part inside that remembers- and I can tap into the same joy of “making” that I felt when I was four, and will feel when I’m 90.