art
Family-themed art is a look into one's living room; it depicts celebration, crises, and the quiet moments of familial interactions.
Parties in Wonderland
My mom likes to tell the story of me as a toddler, proudly explaining my art. I had apparently used the entirety of a purple crayon, just filling the page. I named it “Real Purple” which was my favorite color through much of my childhood. She would display my artwork on the refrigerator, like most moms do. But she also framed a lot of it. I can recall vividly, the finger painting that hung high above the cabinets in the kitchen with the vaulted ceilings. It was matted, behind glass and hung with loving pride for all to see. My great uncle Seymour painted incredibly, using oil pastels. His art was also displayed around our home. In seeing my own artwork displayed, similar to his, I couldn’t help but feel like this meant I was also an artist. My mother always encouraged my creativity which is probably why an adult, I still enjoy drawing, painting, scrapbooking, bedazzling, singing, dancing and writing. Of course, I still enjoy purple. Now as a mother, I also love sharing my appreciation for arts and crafts. It is rewarding to show my children how you can make something incredible using just your mind and a few simple supplies. It is also quite beneficial to be able to make something rather than to buy it.
By Heather Foster3 years ago in Families
From Scraps to Happiness
Well. I sat with bits and pieces of all sorts of crafty off-cuts before me on the table. I fingered tiny beads and shells, ran my thumb over the smooth worn surface of a forest stream pebble, fiddled with the stem of a bark-less twig. Little left-overs from larger projects, each of these I loved, each one made me smile. Little glass bottles - nearly empty - filled a basket. Shiny, colourful variety all playing together here - surely, I asked, there must be something I can do with these?
By Angie Allanby3 years ago in Families
Ixchel's Keys
I found it in the baby grand piano my grandmother’s ghost plays in my ex-stepfather’s mansion. A composition book. I’ve plucked it delicately from the strings and hammers beneath the lid - which I have never opened until now - and cradle its binding between my slender fingers. Flicking through each leaf of paper, I see row after row of five-lined staff. Crawling across it are hundreds of scribbled music notes. Spider-like in style, twining stems and irregular dots scratched from top down as a lightning bolt is to sea…There are ninety-six pages of this, I notice, peering at the little numbers dotting each bottom corner. And on the last page, the ninety-seventh, there’s a final line of staff, only two notes inked across it. An unfinished measure. A final bar of mystery.
By Elliot Benson3 years ago in Families
The Art of Gratitude
Drew was outgoing, single guy who worked as an art teacher at one of the local elementary schools. He also ran an art workshop at the community park on Saturday’s with his free time, mainly for kids, but anyone was welcomed. Drew always had a vision in his head that he wanted to start his own art center for the people in his community to gather, talk, and create, but he just never had the financial means to do it. Everyone in his community knew about his dream and thought that it would be a fun place to have in their town.
By Julie Bane3 years ago in Families
Stolen Talent
Olivia, standing in the gloom of the garden shed, one hand holding a paintbrush thick with paint, the other holding her short brown hair back from her face, glared at the mountain. Ben Cruachan dominated the view through the small window. The rounded mountain rose from the blue haze of the Dividing Range and sat impassive and lordly above the smaller peaks.
By Sarah Fiddelaers3 years ago in Families
Love, Lost And Found.
Makai: Last Thursday started off just like any other Thursday during my junior year of high school did. My mom banging on my door for me to wake up, me pulling the covers over my head struggling to get a few more minutes of sleep. Which never seems to work. But anyway, once I finally make it downstairs I walk into the kitchen to my usual breakfast of mom's french toast and dad's bad jokes. I swear he must think he's the funniest person on Earth, in my opinion he's good but he's no Kevin Hart. So as I sat there listening to the same jokes he tells day after day and pretend to laugh at them like I'd never heard them before. I noticed something was different....mom wasn't laughing like usually does. She was kind of spaced out, as if something else was occupying her mind. She'd always described herself as dreamer, so I'd taken her silence as her daydreaming about her new sewing machine that was set to come in in a few days. And when she gets in those moods, the last thing you'd want to do is disturb her. I remember one time when I was a kid, she was just sitting and thinking and I busted in the room with what I thought was something urgent. As it turns out, she didn't think so and shooed me away as if I was a fly that kept buzzing by her head. So when I saw her drift away at the kitchen table I left her alone. By the time dad and I came to a pause in our laughter I looked at the clock and it was time for me to finish getting myself ready to catch the bus. As I approached the stairs I overheard my dad ask mom what was wrong. Her reply was faint but it was strong enough to make my knees weak trotting up the stairs. "I can't continue acting like everything is ok. I want out! I want out of this house....out of this marriage! So when you leave for work, don't expect me to be here when you return.....I'm sorry." As I approached the door to head to the bus stop, they both told me they loved me and wished me a good day. Of course I responded with "love you guys too." But without hesitation I mumbled, "see you later mom." That was my way of telling her that I'd heard she and my father talking about her plans. As if life wasn't hard enough being the only black kid in an all white school...it wasn't quite like the schools of my grandparents but close enough. I stuck out like a sore thumb, inclusion didn't exist in my world at least at school. Most days I sat by myself during lunch because I was obviously different and they made sure I knew how different I was. Normally I use my notepad that I draw in to keep my mind off of the fact that I was alone in this big space. But today my parent's conversation kept playing in my mind and I kept wondering if she was serious. Would she just leave like that? How long have they been like this? As these questions played through my mental, I lost track of the time and was almost late for my next class. Luckily Mr. Goldman our school's Football/track coach and also the only other black face I see walking the hallways besides when I look in the mirror shook me awake. Me and Mr. G became pretty close, he went to school with my dad 100 years ago or something like that and all he talks about is how my dad could jump out of the gym like no one's business. Well I guess today he could tell that something was off, I didn't want to tell him because I didn't want him saying anything to my dad about it. So I played it cool when he asked "Aye Mak, you good man? You seem a little down..." "Yea, I'm good Mr. G....I’m just get tired of eating by myself ya know." "Ah don't worry about that Mak...you don't want to eat with them anyway." "I guess you're right.." "Mak, I've known you since you were born...you eating alone isn't eating you up....your folks separating is what's doing it..isn't it?" I paused for a second trying to figure out how he'd know. All I could muster up was "You knew?" In true Mr. G fashion he said "of course I knew fool....they fight all the time...just not in front of you." Which threw my day off even more because I began to think of times when I may have missed an argument because I just wasn't paying attention. The day flew by which I was kind of wishing for the opposite. I mean who wants to go home to the house I could potentially walking into.
By Lionel Speaks3 years ago in Families
Little Black Notebook
The Little Black Notebook. By Dguima. My Mom use to tell me I was destined for greatness! My father kept saying, “dream as high as you can my love, because if you don’t get to see your “higher” of “highest” dream come to life you will still have gotten all those other ones granted.” My grandma, a tarot reader, would also add, your spirit guides and ancestors have told me that, “You will have many blessings throughout your life”. I carried their words close to my heart and found comfort in them, as all three of them passed away when I was still a teenager.
By Diego Guimaraes3 years ago in Families
Hiding in Plain Sight
“Wait,” I said, looking around at my siblings and the checks they held. Behind his desk, the attorney winced and adjusted his tie. I got the impression he’d seen this kind of thing at will readings before, and was expecting me to blow up at him. Luckily for him, I’ve never been given to blowing up at anybody. However, even I felt the weight of all the zeroes my siblings’ checks had, and mine didn’t. I mean, $20,000 is a lot of money—most of a year’s pay for me—and I was grateful to Uncle Leonard for thinking of me in his will. He didn’t have to. But every. Single. Check. That my siblings now held had two more zeroes than mine did.
By Kathryn Carson3 years ago in Families