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Losing the Artist Within
When I was twelve years old, I thought I would be an art teacher when I grew up. Perhaps I would illustrate children’s stories, maybe create great paintings. I loved to draw and thought that whatever I did, it would involve art. I was always drawing, doodling and creating. I filled notebooks with images. I would draw pictures and sell them to my classmates for twenty-five cents (unknowingly filling the stereotype of the struggling artist.) With a good friend I co-wrote and illustrated a “magazine” or two that may or may not have included less than kind fictional stories about a fellow classmate (which may or may not have landed me in Sister Patriciana’s office,…