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...continued from yesterday's post (view yesterday's post here)

I worked with every medium I could find.  I transformed egg cartons into dragons, grey bits of plastercine (stolen from school in small increments) into never-ending labyrinthine houses full of secret rooms and tiny furniture. Bags of wool scraps became fodder for dozens of projects, anything from weaving to doll hair; fabric scraps were sewn into a variety of shapes and characters, paper plates into masks worn with fervor. 

Every day brought forth unlimited potential for creation.

And then I would have to go back to school again and I would feel suffocated and bored.

I was caught between two conflicting worlds.

 

When I was in kindergarten my parents were called in by the teacher for a "meeting." She had a bucket full of rolled up drawings done by me. She pulled them out and unrolled them one by one. Each page had a drawing of a square house with three windows and a door, an apple tree, and a few clouds scattered about. They were all identical. The teacher expressed concern at my lack of originality.

Looking back now I think my drawing rut reflected my mental state at being forced to go to school. I did what I felt was expected of me. Every day, the same thing. Ad nauseum. I had taken on their perception of me.

But in my private life I became invincible. My imagination ruled.