When I was small, maybe seven or eight, I would create with a great passion a great variety of art: Lumpy, mottled animals out of air-dry clay and Play-dough, small short poems about God and puppies and stars, rocks painted silver and electric blue, and small crayon drawings of girls in pink skirts. I would take my odd-cobbled collection and try to sell individual works for a quarter a piece, and would station myself beneath an oak tree in the backyard. I’d spread out a blanket and lay my work out carefully, like I had seen artists do at the Dogwood Arts Festival downtown. Our backyard at the time backed into a cul-de-sac, and I thought I might garner some attention there (but not too much as to be embarrassing, because I hated attention).
My mother and father each bought a sculpture, or a poem. My sister came out from the house once to chide, “If you want people to see what you’ve made, you’ve got to make sure they can see you!”
My station was not auspicious. It was barely visible at all. My parents were of course my only customers.*
At thirty-two years old, I’m finally picking up my blanket of work and moving it out into the street where people can see it.
I hope that Far Away can be a vehicle for you to do the same.
Remember, our deadline is just around the corner! We’d like to receive work by midnight, July 15th. You can read our submission guidelines here.
*…and I’ll take the liberty at this moment to formally thank my Mom and Dad for always supporting my artistic endeavors; whether that be by buying a funky-looking Play-dough whale I had made or by schlepping me to rehearsal after rehearsal after rehearsal. Once they even drove two hours to see me in a college play that I had no lines in, and only graced the stage for less than thirty seconds. My parents are beautiful souls and I love them.