As the intoxicating fumes of acrylic paint invade my nostrils, I goggle at the accidental smear of obsidian paint on my bedroom wall. My breath hitches. Pausing, I remember that my art teacher had, in fact, prepared me for this. I just need to “go with it.” After a tense moment, I curve my brush to shape the smear into a solid line. Within the next hour, the mistake is nonexistent; the stray line becomes part of a vibrant bush of purple chrysanthemums. Painting a bush of chrysanthemums is a choice I wouldn’t have normally made, yet a choice, I ecstatically note, that ended up being the perfect addition to my wall.
At age eleven, I painted four, colossal photographs on my bedroom walls. One sticky, intolerably balmy summer day, I simply asked my father if I could paint my room. My father hesitantly agreed. After a few months of preparation, I bought all the supplies necessary
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However, I was (and still am), in every form of the word, strange. To the chagrin of my classmates, for Show-and-Tell, I brought severed duck wings in Ziplock baggies and toad hearts in olive oil-filled glass jars. And whereas most girls wanted to visit Disney World to meet Disney princesses for their birthday, I wanted visit the local landfill to dumpster dive— more specifically, ride down the landfill in a cardboard box with the word “Terminator” stenciled on the side. Although some parents might try to steer their child toward other, more traditional interests, my father never shied away from allowing me to express myself; he always gave me the tools to accomplish my projects and goals. When I needed to preserve an organ, he provided the olive oil; when he couldn’t take me to the landfill for my birthday, he drove me to the dumpster behind the gas station. So when I asked him if I could paint my bedroom myself, he signed me up for an art