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I have no recollection of this, but I was told that when I was at pre-school I used to bring back a huge A3 sized paper with one dot in the middle from art class. Everyday I’d only have a tiny dot drawn right at the centre of the giant spread of paper, but each day the story accompanying the dot was different. It seemed in my head I’d look at this dot (which appeared to be the same as every other dot I drew) and yet see something completely different to everyone else. I did this for days, weeks, and months even. Then suddenly one day I came home with an entire drawing of Mickey Mouse. No one could explain how overnight I made the transition from a ridiculous, meaningless dot (I’d like to think it as me innately understanding a minimalistic approach that painters take years to conquer instead of my lack of artistic talents) to an entire drawing that could be understood at first glance. I was praised for my efforts and everyone was incredibly proud of me. I suppose my little brain at the time didn’t realise that really, the only difference between the dot & the Mickey was that people could understand the latter without an explanation. It made sense. It was recognisable. It had meaning. My family tells this story fondly… a thing in the past. Except now I’m 22. So why do I feel like I am still drawing dots on canvases and wondering why no one else can see what I see?

Created: Mar 10, 2014

Tags: story

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