My grandmother was a painter. Landscapes mostly; lakes, woods, and my favorite, a rough sea on a deserted beach, driftwood jutting up against the wind and sky.  She still paints; after her strokes, the quality of the work isn't what it was, but I'm thankful anyway that something can still hold her attention, since even the visits of family members no longer do.

My mom took photographs.  Some of my earliest childhood memories are of her directing me and my brother:  "Put your arms around each other!" she'd say, "Smile!  Don't move!"  We'd sit obediently on the log, in front of the flowers, on the porch of the old farmhouse.  My brother, slightly chubby with little blond curls, was a charmer.  His smile rarely needed bolstering with toys or promises of "Just one more!" I was patient, resigned, but sometimes mischievous.  There is more than one picture of Bradley squirming away as I try to tickle him.

Lucky enough to travel widely in her youth, I've seen her photos of Egypt, Greece, Italy and Mexico.  She had an eye for framing...while sometimes cliche, she was more often startling in her ability to notice.  To notice things I would not have, did not--like the woman selling birdseed in Piazza San Marco in Venice.  The tattoo artists standing outside their parlor.  I take pictures the way most people do--even the landscapes or buildings are captured to remember what was happening to me, in my life.  She took pictures for the picture's sake, because she wanted them to be noticed.

The point, however, is that they were both artists.  I grew up believing that I would be one too, as soon as my 'gift' found a way to manifest itself.  

It is now 2010.  I am a 23 year old first year graduate student, and I am still waiting for this to happen.  I have not been very actively waiting, mind you; when, one year in high school, Art was the only class that thwarted my goal of straight A's, I decided that creativity was just not my 'thing'.  I put it aside, and got on with my life.

The last few weeks however, have brought about a desire to put pen to paper...figuratively of course, because with this desire came a more tentative one; to have people read what I wrote.  I don't know what it means; as you'll discover if you keep reading, it's completely unlike me to want to put anything of mine on display.  However, I pride myself on being open to new experiences, so I'm just going to roll with it.

This will be an experiment in trust.  I'm trusting you, readers, to be patient with me.  To let me find my voice, but also to be honest in any comments you might leave.  After all, that's the difference between blogging and journaling, right?  Blogging is interactive.

So, if you'll hold up your end of the bargain I'll hold up mine.  Next up, my account of the events precipitating this new venture...