PINK JUSTS MAKES ME HAPPY

I have been an artist almost my whole life.

I was born in Manitoba. My dad decided that he needed to have a farm - of sorts, so he bought an acreage on the outskirts of Winnipeg. There was an old farm house on the property, but my dad, thought it would be a good idea to live in a garage with his wife and five children. He got a friend to help him build it and they set up beds for all of us. My mom used an old shed next door to the garage as a make shift kitchen. We used an old outhouse for awhile, but mostly a chemical toilet behind a curtain in the garage. I must have been about six years old when we moved there. It was one of many moves. Our family spent the summer building a house, with the help of my dad's carpenter friend.

My dad was in good spirits that summer. I don’t think my mom enjoyed it much though. After the house was built, my dad burned down the old farm house. We had all his family out, with lots of food and drinking, and burned the house down. As a kid I thought it was awesome. Me and my numerous cousins ran around the property half the night, while the adults got drunk and watched a piece of history burn to the ground.

The new house wasn’t completely finished when we moved in, but winter was coming and we needed to get in. The school year started and me and my siblings walked to the end of the road to catch a bus to our respective schools. My older brother and I went to a two-room school house. Arts and crafts were a big part of the curriculum. Sometimes the teacher would forget about us if she sent us outside to collect things to make art out of.

Over the winter, my dad and his friend finished the inside of the house and in the spring my mom planted a huge garden. We had chickens, which I wouldn’t eat. My mom had to tell me the chicken we ate were from the store, not any of ours. One day the next summer, I was out in the garden with my mom when a car came down our driveway. My mom sent me to see who it was. A lady got out of the car and asked for Christine. I said “that’s me”, and she handed me a small envelope with my name on it. “You won the finger-painting contest” she said. I didn’t even know I was entered in a contest. I found out later that my teacher liked my finger-painted art and she entered it for me. Inside the envelope was some money. Coins. I don’t remember how much there was, but I do remember thinking that maybe I could get more money for painting. From then on, I painted or would sit and draw all the time. I would draw everything, from the family dog to the water fountains at my school. But, art became so much more than that for me. Art became my escape.

My dad was an alcoholic, who probably was also bi-polar. Growing up with him could be very scary sometimes. I woke up one night because I heard yelling. I creeped down the hall into the livingroom to see my dad sitting with a shotgun across his knee. He yelled, “your mother and I are splitting up, who do you want to go with.” My younger sister and I went to my mom. I don’t remember what happened after that, but they didn’t split up. A year or so later though, my dad sold our house, left the family dog and my cats, and we moved to Vancouver, BC. My oldest brother stayed in Winnipeg. My oldest sister was hitchhiking through Europe. My dad had bought an old city bus. He took all the seats out and loaded our furniture into it. The beds were stacked so we could sleep on them. There was the old chemical toilet behind a curtain and our dining room table in the front in between the side ways seats. We played card games and I drew pictures all the way to Vancouver.

In Vancouver we moved from one house to another. My dad could not settle in one place. His drinking got worse and he became more and more violent. He would take his anger out on my mom. My next oldest brother moved out as soon as he could. By the time I was in high school, the violence was so bad that on one occasion the police had to called to take him away. During his outbursts my younger sister would hide, but I poured myself into art and art became a part of me. Art saved me. It became my refuge. I would try any kind of creative endeavor just to keep my mind busy from thinking about how my father impacted our lives. In high school I took Drawing and Painting, Commercial Art, Graphic Art, and Music. I had hoped to continue to a University art program after high school, but the situation with my dad made that impossible.

Creating art was the one place I felt in control and I felt safe. I always felt calm and happy when I was drawing or painting. I don't know what would have happened to me if I hadn't had art to turn to. My dad committed suicide after my mom finally did leave him when I was in my early twenties. My mom died from cancer twelve years ago. I have been married and divorced and married again. I now have a wonderful non-drinking husband and two beautiful daughters who are on their own now. I am sixty-four years old. I still paint. I also do wood-burning, macame and whatever other art or craft I feel inclined to try. It isn’t just what I do, it is who I am. It gives me peace and it keeps me young. I hope I don’t ever have to stop.