Doubt.

When I was 7 or 8 or 9 I was in Florida staying with my grandparents. My two brothers were there as well. Even on sunny days I spent hours coloring, drawing. I wanted to be as good as my oldest brother who is 7 years older than I am and a year older than my middle brother. My grandmother thought he was a genius. He was the most creative, most intelligent, most beautiful of us. I agreed with her.

My grandmother had taste. She knew Andy Warhol. She had a fake Picasso, a big eyed Keane, and leopard print everywhere. Also houndstooth, Cupids, turquoise. She owned Pucci dresses. I tried to make art as good as my brother’s but I just couldn’t.

One sunny afternoon I did a drawing with pencil or crayons or markers. It was half a face in blue and half, upside down, in red. It was on white paper. I was trying for Picasso, but I thought it was a failure and I think I left it on the table.

My grandmother discovered it. She thought it was amaaaaazzzzzing. She put it in a lucite frame and declared my brother the creator. I still thought it wasn’t so great but I could not believe that she would not believe me when I told her I had made it. I had no proof. But I remembered all my choices. The colors, the hair, turning the paper. My brother had no memory of making it but she would never believe me. My middle brother knows this story and thinks it’s hilarious.

I don’t. There was an infinitesimal part of me that suddenly had doubt. When she would not believe me, I did not believe me. I needed her belief in order to restore mine.

It made me feel invisible.

The drawing has long since disappeared.

I drew it.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s


%d bloggers like this: