I’ve always been an artsy person. From birth to now, 23 years later, I was always meant to be an artist in some capacity. My grandmother often reflects on the times when I was a child, sitting in the corner and working on my latest craft. I made books, I drew anime, I colored innumerable coloring books over the years, I crocheted scarves and hats and blankets. I always loved these things, but it wasn’t until my senior year of high school that I realized I actually had a talent in working with my hands.
See, in 9th grade I took an entry-level pottery class at my school, and I liked it a lot. But I wasn’t anything spectacular, and I quickly moved on to other things with just a fond memory of the smell of the studio in the back of my mind.
Eventually the time came to start thinking about my senior electives during the second semester of my junior year, and I fondly thought back to my time in pottery in 9th grade. I had received a mid-range B in the class, so I barely fit the criterion for Pottery II. My request to take the class was approved, and I started in on the second level of pottery eagerly the next spring. I loved it. I was finally able to let my creative juices flow, and in so doing, I found a passion and an art. I stayed behind at school until 9 at night at least once, normally twice, per week just to get a few extra hours of work into my designs. I even became friends with the janitor of the arts building, who would leave the doors unlocked for me on certain nights he knew I would be returning to the studio.
I couldn’t draw or write for crap (my hands never were ones for the finer details), but I could mold shapes and form designs with the tools at hand. It was lovely. I felt free. Ever since then, I’ve been chasing that dream, hoping for something new to give me that same feeling.