When I was a ten-year-old girl, my mother determined to lead us to the world of art. My brother and I were not very excited when we realized what our mother meant. What she meant was not that we could take drawing classes or painting classes but that we would have to spend our afternoon a week with her at the Fine Arts Museum. Before each visit to the museum, she made us read about artists and painting styles. It was almost as dreadful as being in school. Who wants to spend the summer thinking about artists when you could be with our friends at the swimming pool?
First we had to read about ancient Egyptians and their strange way of painting faces and then go to look at them at the museum. My 12-year-old brother thought this was funny, but I was not interested. Later we had to learn about artists in the Middle Age who painted people wearing strange long clothing. We had to look at pictures of fat babies with wings and curly hair and with no clothes on flying around the edges of paintings. I certainly couldn't see what was so great about art.
On our last visit to the museum, things changed when I saw a painting by a woman called Mary. In it, a woman was reading to a child. The colors were soft and gentle, and you could tell by the woman's expression how happy she was just to be with the child. I couldn't stop looking at the painting! I wanted to see every painting Mary had ever made! It was really worth looking at so many paintings to find a painter who could interest me so much.
