Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
My love of art had stemmed from here. Here it manifested into a passion, something I could never see myself without.
Buried in the back of the massive center was Northridge Arts Program. This place had birthed artist, sculptures, graphic designers.
Just like it birthed me.
I can remember when I was seven or so I'd stumbled across this gem. I'd tagged along with Ray—who was supposed to be attending a "business class" he'd been telling or should I say lying to our parents about.
He made me promise not to tell them the truth when I came along and discovered it was far from business. Truth be told he was taking a culinary class. Learning his way around the kitchen and profecting his craft. I never told because Ray looked happy doing it, and he always snagged me food he'd prepared.
That day, I'd grown sick of sitting around waiting for Ray to finish cooking. I'd snuck out of the room when he wasn't looking and wandered the whole place in search of something to do.
Door after door some rooms were empty, some were having real business classes and one was having a baby shower. I come up short Until I stumbled across the last door. Deep down a hallway.
NORTH RIDGE ART CENTER Ms. Slyvia's class
The class was filled with kids my age. I watched as they mirrored every step the lady did making their own mini masterpieces.
I was in awe wishing I could do that. Create something so beautiful with strokes of a brush. I didn't go in that day. But every-time Ray said he was going to business class Id jump up and go with him, eager to see what Ms.Sylvias class was doing that day. This place was something real. I was grateful to find it, it had changed my life.
As I wiped my hands on The dingy shirt I wore I was surprised that it was almost completely covered in colors now. Shades of yellows, blues, and greens covered my hands making them look like abstract art. Most people hated to be covered in paint or anything to be honest. To me it was freeing. It covered my hated skin with colors that society loved.
I was like a living coloring book. Unknowingly painting my skin with colors of the rainbow. One day hopping when I went to scrub them away it would stick permanently.
Wouldn't matter to me, I'd be a color other than the one I was tormented for.
I ran my finger along the palmtree checking to see if it was dry. It was. I held it up in-front of me observing my work. The painting before me was simple. A beach covered in trees with water surrounding it. It would've taken me less than thirty minutes to create, but with kids you had to go step by step.
In honor of Mrs Sylvia, I taught an art class on Sunday evenings. Sunday mornings were for church.
