It was my Sophomore year of art college and I'd fallen into such a deep depression that I could not bring myself to paint. Ironic right? All of us emotional artists are supposed to be able to be the most skilled expressionists in that state. Well, not this one. And then my instructor Franklin stepped into my world. At first I was afraid of him and I didn't even realize it. Finally one of my friends in class asked why he hadn't reviewed my work and he said "She's hiding from me. She's afraid of me. She's afraid of herself." He told me to follow through on the piece I was working on. "Get your fingers all over it, blood, sweat and tears, rub it till it burns, etc." I worked that one piece throughout the entire semester. At my critique he said, "You know it doesn't really matter if this piece is good or not. What matters is that she did it." And because I had worked so hard on it with no other agenda, it really did become something more real for me. I could feel it in my little hands. This sketchbook was sort of a second version of that piece I did so many years ago. Franklin, Thank you. Wherever you are. I will always love you and appreciate you.
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