I’ve had a love of drawing since I was a child.
When I was around four or five years old, I used to love drawing. I had those lovely old-fashioned color pencils and a box of watercolor paint cakes. Hours would go by with nary a peep from the nursery, where my mother knew me to be deeply engrossed in the creation of a vibrant fairy tale on heavy white paper.
This vice was encouraged by my progenitors until they noted that I also loved to take apart and reassemble objects. This could be anything at all – dolls suffered the fate of having their heads taken off and eyes pulled out to see what made then open and close.
The first tiny black and white television on our street fell victim to my screwdriver so I could free the little dancing men from their involuntary confinement. Gutting a herring or cleaning a chicken was utterly fascinating. “She will be a surgeon!” My mother announced, the day I turned 6.
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