I grew up in a comfortable, loving, working class home in small town Mississippi. Art class at school consisted of coloring on mimeographed pages of turkeys, snowmen and Jesus. Coloring outside the lines was frowned upon, and orange skies were discouraged.
My mother had a flair for home decorating. We had a turquoise front door, and a centerpiece made of gold painted Magnolia leaves. I made mud pies in the back yard, and created assemblages from discarded construction materials. A few of my father's siblings had artistic leanings. My uncle John did beautiful charcoal drawings of the Polynesian women he had seen when stationed in the islands during WWII. My aunt Margaret, a journalist, erected little alters consisting of Buddha statues, black candles, rocks and various items found around the house. She was famous for "dumpster diving."
I never drew or painted as a child. I never took an art class.
I started college majoring in Journalism, which lasted about a week. I don't believe in asking too many questions of people, I just wanted to be a correspondent for Time Magazine because I loved reading it and liked to travel.
Next, I tried Psychology, which caused me to doubt my own sanity. I dropped out for a while, and got my head straight. My parents urged me to go back to college. I spent a summer browsing college catalogs, looking for something interesting.
