47 years ago I squeezed out some white paint onto a glass palette I'd made for myself. Cleaned it every night after a day of painting. For at least a couple of years I kept it clean.
Then I stopped. The paint I didn't use began to build up. Thousands of paintings came from that palette. Stories from my long-ago past and stories I was living through at the moment are in that palette. A lifetime of learning came from those mounds of dried paint. Looking across them there were still-life set-ups of family treasures, young ladies with inspiring stories and childhood memories rising from the fresh colors I laid out every morning. The eyes that I had as a young aspiring artist see the world different after a thousand paintings. Painting has given me a clearer understanding of the world I live in and it has softened my views on things I disagreed with.
Painting has been my support in hard times and my reward for sharing the good times. Good times are what my art is about. I have turned to my palette for furthering my art education. There is, for me, more knowledge coming from my palette than from any book.
