The sign over the doorway said Painting and Drawing. Another one on the office door said Nancy Klapp. It’s Wednesday morning about 7:45 and my first formal art class started at eight. The studio was full. The bright young faces were calm as they laughed and talked to each other. Much different than how I felt at thirty-nine being the oldest student in the class.

The drawing desks were arranged in a big circle taking up about half of the studio. I chose one just inside the door, which made for an easy departure if I chose to do so. As I sat facing the back walls I noticed the artwork hanging from them, which already had me doubting if I belonged in this class.

The talking stopped as I heard a voice behind me. “Good morning. I’m Nancy Klapp but please call me Nancy.” When she walked behind me and to my right I noticed a woman with straight blond hair that reached her shoulders and went a few inches down her back. The smile on her face was welcoming and her blue eyes spoke of the excitement she felt about teaching. “This is two dimensional design. How many of you are art majors?” Most of the class including me raised their hands. “I want to go around the room and have you introduce yourself and let us know why you are taking this class and what type of art background you have if any.” My hands started to sweat and I considered taking advantage of my close proximity to the door.  

As we went around the room I felt more and more like I didn’t belong as I heard stories of parents who were famous artist and multiple years of high school painting and drawing classes. There were two young women who had no art background and were only taking this class to fulfill the humanities requirement for graduation. They made me feel a little better about my course selection. When it was my turn I told the story of my grandfather and his fame, even though none of these kids were even born before he died, and that I was finally getting around to finishing those art lessons from so long ago. Nancy seemed interested in what I said. But I received blank stares from my classmates that reminded me of how my grandfather looked in his coffin, after seventy some years all those creative ideas were gone. Were these kids burned out at eighteen?

Nancy gave out the syllabus for the class and a list of supplies we needed to buy. The topics covered were all things I knew I could do, and my confidence grew and I no longer thought about sneaking out the door behind me. 

The class was four hours long but it seemed like no time at all when 12 o’clock came. The rest of the class hurried out the door leaving me alone. I sat and stared at the artwork on the walls before getting up and taking a tour around the room observing each piece carefully. My study of the artistic ability was disrupted when Nancy came back into the studio. “I will see you next week.” I shook my head no as I explained that I had signed up for the other two classes she was teaching on Wednesday and would be there until 10PM when her drawing class was over. She seamed surprised like no one else had ever done that before. I told her about working and that Wednesday was my day off.

At 1PM the painting class started and we did the same introduction routine only this time Nancy asked questions about my grandfather before we went on to the next student. I explained about Koester’s Bakery and how he had painted the picture of the little girl that was on their bread wrappers. Several of my classmates who were older did seem interested but the others gave me that dead man stare; again, the four hours went by very quickly.

The drawing class was about the same, with ten o’clock coming very quickly and though I had just spent fourteen hours in that studio I felt invigorated and had trouble going to sleep that night as I lie on my bed with thoughts of projects I could make and ideas of how they should look.

As the weeks went by I looked forward to Wednesdays. I very seldom took advantage of the hour break between classes and was usually still working on a project from the previous class when the next one began. Nancy could see my passion for art and as the semester progressed she made example of my work sometimes good sometimes bad, but always in a way that encouraged me to do more.

And the other students… Some of those stares started to show life and I became part of a community where the creativity flowed. Like a short story each one of our works had its own tale to tell that all came together as a finished book by the end of the semester. 

In the paintings I did during the next few months I started to experience a way of self-expression that gave me great pleasure, but also a sense of peace within myself. A feeling of joy that was not boastful but born by an inner Light where what ever I expressed on the canvas, which sometimes brought controversy or was vandalized, was still accepted as mine, my thoughts, my ideas. The concept my grandfather taught me many years before.