By Heidi Farr

Art has always seemed unattainable to me; my drawing ability stalled out at the stick figure and the square house with the triangle roof, my painting ability went no further than eight little puddles of Crayola watercolors, and my high school pottery class (grade: B-) was highlighted by a lopsided pentagonal slab pot that I still use to hold mail. Art was, I decided, for people who were good at it, whose idea of time well-spent included things like sketch-books, gesso and decoupage. These artists could look at a pile of craft supplies and pull out of their brain an amazing and creative use for all of them at once. They could, when asked by their five-year-old, draw a dog that actually looked like a dog. In short, they could interpret the world around them in a creative, non-verbal manner that so far surpassed my stick figures. I figured art (and the ability to communicate without the medium of words) was a lost cause for me. I know I’m not the only non-artist to feel this way. I’ve heard countless people express this same thing: “I don’t have an artistic bone in my body.” “I haven’t picked up a paintbrush since second grade.” “I’m terrible at art.”

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