My father, besides passing me rather good business sense and a bucketload of charm, directly affected my relationship to paint.
From the age of 12 to 22 I worked in nearly every capacity at Dwight's business Calgary Powder Coatings Inc.(if you don't know the process, buy me three beers and I will explain it...it involves a gigantic oven) . Besides making me most comfortable around bikers and dudes who work labour jobs, it gave me something that feels like insider knowledge about paint.
By seeing poorly-coated cured paint shearing off of metal, I was let in on a secret about paint. It has dimensionality, an underside. It does not just fill in a space with colour. This disallowed my becoming a painter uncursed by a curiosity about what I was painting and how it looked form the board's side.
Seeing the daily ridiculous of 100 panels flying past, all fuschia did something too.
This post doesn't do justice and feels like the old "I was built to be a painter" routine...how do you deal with experience and what it did to your work. Especially with how common attributing special to every memory you have is. It feels like saying I was a drug addict because I have addiction in my family....so what about my sister? Is she not one because off the same reason.
I have a lot of discomfort around discussing my upbringing and how it affects my work. Tomorrow I'll describe my Mother's work at Observation Nurseries Calgary and what that did.