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My grandmother Hattie was an artist. I might have been 5 years old when we sat on her side porch together, where I learned everything about me. The rugs and fabrics and porcelains of Hattie’s porch were a crowded mash-up of colors and textures—long before someone came up with the term “shabby chic.” She once told me, while she was painting, “You know, I’m not very good, but I don’t care.” Neither did I. I loved looking at her messy oil paints in an old wooden box. I loved looking out at her flower garden while watching her paint. That visual memory is how I see myself now, every day, in my own studio.

I have been obsessed with color all my life. One of the first indicators I can remember that my brain was wired this way was when I wandered the makeup aisle in our local, small-town dime store. For me, that aisle was heaven—row after row of thrilling, vibrant, portable color. I wasn’t old enough to wear makeup then—I wasn’t even old enough to have the money to buy any of it--but still I longed to somehow get my hands on all those little containers. It didn’t help my young girl’s conscience that my favorite shelves were just my height, so the urge to touch everything was almost overwhelming. My mother always finished gathering up her purchases way too soon, and when her voice would summon me to leave the store, I felt like I was being drug against my will back into the left-brained world.

Later, when I graduated from high school, my parents begged me to go to an art school or a university where I could immerse myself in art. Instead, I chose to start a family, and, for the next 30 years, immersed myself in the joys of raising my children. My art training has consisted of part-time college classes and numerous art workshops. Along the way, I’ve been blessed with many capable teachers and mentors, and my children and family have been a source of great support and inspiration.