I've always colored in books, sketched on the backs of tests, and drawn with pen on the palm of my hand. But it wasn't until college that I really started to paint. I'd had a lesson here or there, and grew up with some talent in my family, so art was usually near. But there is something that stirs inside of you when, for the first time, you finish painting something, leave it be, and then return to it the next day, STILL feeling as though there is nothing about it that you'd like to change. Most of the time, you catch something you should have touched up better, or a line or shadow that's not quite right. You could go on for months, looking at that painting on the wall and pointing out what you should have done to make it better. But looking at YOUR painting, and knowing that it's complete, is the most satisfying feeling.
The first time I ever felt that feeling was when I sat at my parents dining room table, Googled "Rastafarian guy," and decided to paint.
He was one of the first attempts I had ever made with acrylics, and I haven't left them since. If this painting one day sells, it will be hard to let go of. Feeling so proud of my work after finishing this piece was one of the reasons I fell in love with painting. I know it may seem funny to be so sentimental about some color on a brush, but soon after this point, art became an emotional outlet for me. A stress relief and an ego booster. The satisfaction that comes from finding that outlet is... awesome.
Hope you love him as much as I do!
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