Why I paint when I should be playing the piano.

As a painter I think I’m pretty good.  Of course there is room for improvement, but that’s how it should be with all artist.  I haven’t panted anything for over a year, I guess I just don’t have a passion for it, a talent yes but not a passion.  It’s just something I know how to do.  Perhaps, if I had the passion to paint I would be doing it more often.  I wish I learned how to play the piano as a child, that’s where my passion lies.  I remember I used to play the piano in the house as often as I could when I was a teen, but because Dad often told me to play with the foot pedals down, it was hard to really enjoy the sound.  Funny that “Mr. Wall of Sound” didn’t encourage me to play or learn music but rather tried to muffle any desire I might have had.  He did however, send me to a private class after convincing him of my passion in playing the piano.  It wasn’t a prestigious class with a strict teacher disciplining how you should positions your hands before you even hit your first note as much as it was a teacher who taught you how to play “Marry Had A Little Lamb” on your first day and by the second week, “Chariots of Fire” if he liked you.   He had no problem teaching me “Chariots of Fire” because that’s what I wanted to learn, discipline, respect of the keys and correct positions will come later, at least I think that was the plain.   I didn’t last long enough to find out. 

 

Dad didn’t make anything easy for me.  He didn’t spoil me in any way or allow me to live the pampered life that is not only common with the wealthy but expected.  He didn’t buy me things that would benefit me in anyway.  All my art supplies came from my next door neighbor’s generosity.  When I got a job at Taco Bell, I bought my own clothes and school supplies.  Though I was old enough to drive, he would never buy me a car.   I accepted that and never expected anything from him as most of my friends where in the same positions I was, only they didn’t live in mansions in Beverly Hills. So it kind of sucked that I had to take not only one bus to my piano class but two.   And when I missed one, which I hardly ever did, I would end up walking.  The day I missed the class entirely was on a day I felt kind of down. I had already missed the first bus and walking seemed kind of a drag but I ventured forward only to end up missing my second bus because it broke down.   Still I walk forward but only to get to the class an hour late.  Upset, I walked all the way back home.   The next day Dad yells at me for missing a class and then informs me that he had canceled my lessons.   Because I normally felt at fault for all that I did, I didn’t argue with him and just added it to one more thing I wasn’t initialed to.   

Fortunately, painting required no classes.  I didn’t need to take a bus or walk a distance to get there.  Painting was just something I did in my room while listening to music in the background, preferably Mozart on the piano.  Painting was just something I did to clear my mind.