I remember the first real exposure to visual art was when I was very young. Sure I had seen drawings and stuff like that before, but it wasn't until I was around 6 or 7 when I decided that I wanted to be able to do that stuff too. My mom had bought me this painting of a whale, (I really liked whales back then) and it mesmerized me. The way the paint rose off the canvas, the way the painter had used what looked like 1000 different shades of blue to create the perfect colored sea. Everything about it captured my attention. It was after hanging this painting that I begun my fruitless journey into the world of art.
I tried drawing, painting, sculpting, pottery and everything else in between. But nothing I did looked good. Some of it was actually pretty laughable. Art class in school became a hell for me as I struggled with my grand clay sculpture that eventually turned into an ashtray, over and over again. I began to hate the other people around me and how easy images and shapes seemed to flow from their fingertips. This is not an exaggeration, they all made stick figures better than me.
I then made the mistake of growing close with a couple of artists. I found myself in awe of the things my friends had made and once again jealous that I could not. This jealousy actually lead me to start writing. Once I finally resigned myself to a life that would never involve a gallery showing off my work, I turned to words. I wish I could say that I started writing in order to explore the intricacies of the written word, but the truth is, I was tired of watching my friends create stuff I could not.
At this point in my life I'm comfortable with my lack of artistic talent. Perhaps it's because I've grown comfortable with my writing, or maybe it's something else like maturity, but that's probably not the case. Either way I know I'll never have a museum piece and that's just fine. But dammit if I still don't feel that green mist of jealousy flicking my ear when I see a really cool painting.