memoir
I remember finishing a painting of bananas after working on it for six months. I remember the time when I was three and my mom changed my diaper.
I remember that after the piece was completed, I took it home and showed it to my parents. I told them it took me six months to paint. I told them that it was my proudest piece to date.
I remember that my mom carried me into her bedroom late that night and my dad was already asleep. My mom kept all of the lights off except the one on her nightstand so that she wouldn’t wake him up.
I had to do two layers: one of acrylic underlay and one of oil overlay. I didn’t mind repainting the entire thing in oils with a brand new palate. Redefining each banana and contour and shadow was part of the painting process and I enjoyed everything about the painting process. I loved painting and I loved the painting I brought home that day.
She kept the green Pampers bag in a cupboard under her nightstand lamp. She nimbly kept me hoisted while she got the bag out and changed me on her bed. I knew crying would wake my dad up so, I didn’t; I just kept quiet and obeyed my mom as I always did as a child.
I hadn’t gotten tired of the seemingly monotonous sepia tones. I hadn’t gotten frustrated with the eluding brown in the top left corner of the picture that I seemed to be unable to mix properly for weeks. The painting was completed and that meant it was perfect in my eyes, as all my pieces were upon completion.
I know what I was like at three years old. I’ve been told: I was quiet and agile and hardly much of a crier. I’ve prided myself on the latter. My brother was proclaimed as the hyperactive annoyingly loud one so I have of course taken advantage of my once coveted better toddler title. I suppose I won in that stage of life.
I’ve heard how the compliments on my piece, how life-like the bananas do look. It’s photo-realism, I say. It’s a technique I am perfecting and I love it. I looked on with my viewer at the shadows and curves and varied hues of the picture and accepted that, this is amazing.
How much am I supposed to remember from being three. We went to Washington D.C. but I didn’t know that until I saw pictures of myself in some park. I had a Burger King birthday party when I was three but I didn’t know that until I heard my cousins making fun of me for having bragged about it for two months. Being three years old is a lot like being two or four for me, I really don’t remember anything from it at all. Remembering the green Pampers bag and my mom’s nightstand is a bit more than suspicious to me these days. I can’t help but wonder if I remember the green Pampers bag in her nightstand or if I want to remember the green Pampers bag in her nightstand.
Sometimes my parents put my pieces out when people are coming over, mostly because if they didn’t display them nicely, they’d be piled up in a stack in the corner of the room somewhere acting more conspicuously and out of place than if they were simply properly displayed. The painting of my bananas tends to be one of the ones that attracts attention; I suppose sepia toned fruit is more appealing than I previously would have bet on. When people ask me about my painting, I automatically respond glowingly; I adore the process, it’s a release, I love every second of it, and after saying all of these praises, my listener’s virgin thirst for the subject seems to be satiated and they move on to continue talk on HMO’s or their favorite tennis player. I don’t know how much I do adore the entirety of the painting process or how much I want to adore it for the sake of saying I love the hardships as much as triumphs.
I was told I was good child. I’ve taken that to heart to one up my brother. He broke glass tables when he was three, I untied my shoes and put them neatly in the corner when I was three. I’ve heard the stories and embellishments so I suppose it’s only natural for me to recall my own story and embellish it. As much as I claim that it was a green Pampers bag my mom took out of our cupboard that night, I can’t help but think it’s my previous knowledge that my mom bought Pampers that makes me remember this story so vividly. I love the picture of me sitting in the Pampers box. I was one and half and I fit inside of the antiquated diaper box and for that feat, it became my senior baby picture. I don’t know if my childhood affinity to the product supplies my memories with more probability of occurring or simply presents it as a referencing a known fact.
The ups and downs of painting dip much further into the down during the process than they seem to be able to rebound up. I don’t like working in acrylics. They dry too quickly and mix too crudely so under my known sentiments on the product, it’s fair to presume working in them on my painting was not an enjoyable experience. I don’t know why I claim to enjoy it then, why I say every part of the process is fabulous. I suppose I think that glorifying the hard parts as great will make my piece even greater. After it’s all over, I erase all of these remnants of frustration and fill my view of the painting to no be no more educated than the common viewer. I end up seeing simply what’s in front of me and remove any ability to remember what attempts and failures lay beneath the final layer.
I’ve become good at convincing myself that I can remember the minute details of my infancy and good at forcing myself to forget the blatant frustrations of my passion. I suppose I want to be able to say that I can remember something from before I was able to walk. I suppose I want to be able to say I relish the tough times as well as the easy ones. I don’t know if my mom ever changed my diaper while my dad was sleeping although I’m sure it happened since babies can be unpredictable and thoroughly untimely. I hope that it is true thought, I think. I think it would give me a sense of comfort that I’m not just searching from some hidden satisfaction from being such a mild creature saving my dad from waking up or that I really am talented enough to exercise product placement in my own memories. I hope I don’t conveniently leave out all of the mistakes in my paintings because I want to seem superior, but hopefully just because my memory doesn’t serve me correctly enough to provide humility. I hope that somewhere in my subconscious I’m really not telling people about what I don’t like because I want to seem positive and not because I want to be praised.
Memories are little more than jaded and tainted retrospect of coulda shoulda woulda experiences that I haven’t had the courage or ability to clarify. The clarification, though, is where the real haze seems appear. I don’t know how to view my memories without the hint of embellishment and the convenience of selectivity. I suppose that’s what makes the experience one of my memoir and not one of a history book.
I remember that after the piece was completed, I took it home and showed it to my parents. I told them it took me six months to paint. I told them that it was my proudest piece to date.
I remember that my mom carried me into her bedroom late that night and my dad was already asleep. My mom kept all of the lights off except the one on her nightstand so that she wouldn’t wake him up.
I had to do two layers: one of acrylic underlay and one of oil overlay. I didn’t mind repainting the entire thing in oils with a brand new palate. Redefining each banana and contour and shadow was part of the painting process and I enjoyed everything about the painting process. I loved painting and I loved the painting I brought home that day.
She kept the green Pampers bag in a cupboard under her nightstand lamp. She nimbly kept me hoisted while she got the bag out and changed me on her bed. I knew crying would wake my dad up so, I didn’t; I just kept quiet and obeyed my mom as I always did as a child.
I hadn’t gotten tired of the seemingly monotonous sepia tones. I hadn’t gotten frustrated with the eluding brown in the top left corner of the picture that I seemed to be unable to mix properly for weeks. The painting was completed and that meant it was perfect in my eyes, as all my pieces were upon completion.
I know what I was like at three years old. I’ve been told: I was quiet and agile and hardly much of a crier. I’ve prided myself on the latter. My brother was proclaimed as the hyperactive annoyingly loud one so I have of course taken advantage of my once coveted better toddler title. I suppose I won in that stage of life.
I’ve heard how the compliments on my piece, how life-like the bananas do look. It’s photo-realism, I say. It’s a technique I am perfecting and I love it. I looked on with my viewer at the shadows and curves and varied hues of the picture and accepted that, this is amazing.
How much am I supposed to remember from being three. We went to Washington D.C. but I didn’t know that until I saw pictures of myself in some park. I had a Burger King birthday party when I was three but I didn’t know that until I heard my cousins making fun of me for having bragged about it for two months. Being three years old is a lot like being two or four for me, I really don’t remember anything from it at all. Remembering the green Pampers bag and my mom’s nightstand is a bit more than suspicious to me these days. I can’t help but wonder if I remember the green Pampers bag in her nightstand or if I want to remember the green Pampers bag in her nightstand.
Sometimes my parents put my pieces out when people are coming over, mostly because if they didn’t display them nicely, they’d be piled up in a stack in the corner of the room somewhere acting more conspicuously and out of place than if they were simply properly displayed. The painting of my bananas tends to be one of the ones that attracts attention; I suppose sepia toned fruit is more appealing than I previously would have bet on. When people ask me about my painting, I automatically respond glowingly; I adore the process, it’s a release, I love every second of it, and after saying all of these praises, my listener’s virgin thirst for the subject seems to be satiated and they move on to continue talk on HMO’s or their favorite tennis player. I don’t know how much I do adore the entirety of the painting process or how much I want to adore it for the sake of saying I love the hardships as much as triumphs.
I was told I was good child. I’ve taken that to heart to one up my brother. He broke glass tables when he was three, I untied my shoes and put them neatly in the corner when I was three. I’ve heard the stories and embellishments so I suppose it’s only natural for me to recall my own story and embellish it. As much as I claim that it was a green Pampers bag my mom took out of our cupboard that night, I can’t help but think it’s my previous knowledge that my mom bought Pampers that makes me remember this story so vividly. I love the picture of me sitting in the Pampers box. I was one and half and I fit inside of the antiquated diaper box and for that feat, it became my senior baby picture. I don’t know if my childhood affinity to the product supplies my memories with more probability of occurring or simply presents it as a referencing a known fact.
The ups and downs of painting dip much further into the down during the process than they seem to be able to rebound up. I don’t like working in acrylics. They dry too quickly and mix too crudely so under my known sentiments on the product, it’s fair to presume working in them on my painting was not an enjoyable experience. I don’t know why I claim to enjoy it then, why I say every part of the process is fabulous. I suppose I think that glorifying the hard parts as great will make my piece even greater. After it’s all over, I erase all of these remnants of frustration and fill my view of the painting to no be no more educated than the common viewer. I end up seeing simply what’s in front of me and remove any ability to remember what attempts and failures lay beneath the final layer.
I’ve become good at convincing myself that I can remember the minute details of my infancy and good at forcing myself to forget the blatant frustrations of my passion. I suppose I want to be able to say that I can remember something from before I was able to walk. I suppose I want to be able to say I relish the tough times as well as the easy ones. I don’t know if my mom ever changed my diaper while my dad was sleeping although I’m sure it happened since babies can be unpredictable and thoroughly untimely. I hope that it is true thought, I think. I think it would give me a sense of comfort that I’m not just searching from some hidden satisfaction from being such a mild creature saving my dad from waking up or that I really am talented enough to exercise product placement in my own memories. I hope I don’t conveniently leave out all of the mistakes in my paintings because I want to seem superior, but hopefully just because my memory doesn’t serve me correctly enough to provide humility. I hope that somewhere in my subconscious I’m really not telling people about what I don’t like because I want to seem positive and not because I want to be praised.
Memories are little more than jaded and tainted retrospect of coulda shoulda woulda experiences that I haven’t had the courage or ability to clarify. The clarification, though, is where the real haze seems appear. I don’t know how to view my memories without the hint of embellishment and the convenience of selectivity. I suppose that’s what makes the experience one of my memoir and not one of a history book.