I went there for two reasons. The first one was that Harold didn't have to hang around with me while I was at Haven House and even-- he didn't like the room. He said art was too liberal a medium for him.
That kept me in there a lot.
The second reason was that I'd begun to get this feeling in my soul that when I looked at everything and anything, it was as if it was a piece of art just waiting to be discovered.
Suddenly, I saw everything in shapes, colors and textures. In no time at all I went through three note books and was almost finished with my fourth. I was sketching non-stop.
I felt alive.
It was like it was when I'd first started to paint.
My mother had given me a Last Supper Paint-by-Numbers set when I was sick in bed with the measles.
"The Lord will help heal you," she said to me. "If you give glory to him."
I finished the picture in a little over an hour, but instead of following their numbers-- I made up my own colors.
My mother came back with some tomato soup and I held it up to show her. She was shocked.
"God has given you a gift," she said kissing my forehead. "Don't waste it on humanly things. Spend your time on praising His name."
After I got well. I spent my allowance on some colored pencils and a huge drawing pad.
I spent days working on color and form.
One day I showed my mother a picture I'd drawn of the crucifixion.
She was beaming and telling me how wonderful it was until she saw that Jesus was naked and he was fully equipped.
She slapped me across the face and asked me how I could do that.
I told her that when the Romans crucified people, they usually stripped them. I'd read it in a history book somewhere.
"Not the Savior," she said. "And how do you know how draw one of those, young man?"
"I looked at mine."
She slapped me again, made me draw a loin cloth across the canvas, took away my pencils and pad and then grounded me for a month.
I sat in the studio, putting the finishing touches on a picture of my mother I'd been sketching.
I drew her when she was young and beautiful-- before she found comfort in the two B's.
The Bible and the bottle.
"That's wonderful," someone said behind me. "You're very talented."
I turned around and saw her.
She was standing there with a canvas in one hand. A box of paints in the other.
"I'm Donna."
Both her wrists were bandaged.
