So you would like to be an artist

Have you ever been at a swinging party, and one of the revellers sits down at the piano and begins playing all the tunes being requested? And you whisper "Gawd I wish I could play the piano". Or you are in a small group of friends and one of them confesses he is writing a novel, and you say outloud, "Me too. I haven't started yet. But I' got a great idea that I will write someday." Or you are at the opening of a friend's Art Exhibition, and again you do some soul searching about why you never pursued the art talent your grade six teacher praised.

Here's your chance to revisit that latent creativity, since I am going to teach you how to become an artist. I began showing drawing talent when I was nine years old, and at age 41, went into the high school principal's office and submitted my resignation as Chairman of Art.

"But what are you going to do without a steady income?"

"I'm going to go into my studio and pursue my new career as a professional artist."

"Well Bill, when you get down to your last crust of bread, come back and see us.
I hate to see a good teacher quit like this."

"Someday Ray, I will be a famous artist, and you will always be just a high school principal."

Not exactly the classiest resignation on record. I am now 77, and still painting. The Dictionary of Canadian Art states that I am known for outstanding portrait painting. My art is now in permanent collections of several galleries. My abstracts are in Japan, UK, and corporate offices in the United States. Dreaming about doing something does not make it happen.

I will respond to your questions on art if you forward them in the comment section of this blog. In fact I welcome other artists to reply to your comments so that we can make this a co-operative learning experience.
You can view my bio and art work by clicking here,www.noozoon.com

Remembering

The sound of laughter and people partying woke the tiny child. Standing in his crib, he began crying in the darkened room. His loud noises were finally heard and someone opened the door. The light from the living room made him squint as it burst into the nursery. In the front room, he saw the jumbled mass of fat uncle tangled amongst pieces of mahogany splinters. The chair on which he had been sitting was now a bunch of useless fragments. His drink had splashed the wall beside him. Someone offered to help him to his feet.

Soon they were gathering around the crib saying inane things in baby talk, filling the small room with second hand smoke, and the acrid smell of booze. An overweight relative thrust her beefy arms into the crib in an attempt to lift the struggling baby. It was then, my mother took over, and the visitors left the room.

What a strange recollection. I'm not even sure I remember it as it happened, or am I recalling what I was told about it. Apparently I was not even a year old at the time. I am still convinced there is in my memory the picture of someone on the floor in a broken heap of what had been a chair.

View the art of William James Johnson by clicking here