Reflections: When Did You Become An Artist?

Family vacations were magical as best I can recall, and the calendar did not dictate when vacation time started in our household. Mother would unapologetically yank us out of school for a few days. It was the carefree 1960’s. “The world is your education,” she would rationalize, flinging a hand in the direction of the blurred Louisiana countryside whizzing by. She gave “Baby Blue” our sleek, winged Buick Electra, more gas. It seemed an endless 5-hour drive north to the Texas seashore. My sister read comic books. I sketched in the pages of my trip dairy. A mid morning nap was interrupted by a change in the air. Sea breezes. Yes! We were there.

Once on Galveston Island, the discoveries began. Smooth seashells to carefully sketch in my journal, recovered shore birds feathers to tape in its pages, scribbled figure drawings of lone beach strollers and sweeping vistas of sand, sea oats and frothy green waves to paint…my grand attempts at soggy seascapes buckled the journal’s thin pages. This was the beginning of a life long habit of traveling with a sketchbook in hand. A curious Texan, peering over my shoulder predicted my destiny, “Why, she’s an ar-TISTE!” she drawled.

I still am.

-Cynthia Padilla