I object to the question

...Plus a very short history of art.

Hi, my name is J. I used to have a name with more letters but that was before the drunk with the truck. Fyi, I object to the question of, why me? Who else should it have been? The answer is no one. No one at all.

The part of the brain that allows you to speak is about the size of a penny, as in a penny for your thoughts. Other spots just as small let you recognize your child, your mom, your home, your hand. Or not.

I pointed to a chair because I couldn’t say “chair.” I did the same with a shoe. Some of anything I knew dropped out of some of anything I was trying to say as I was trying to say it. That is called aphasia. For lunch, I had a plate of nothing with a side of nothing because nothing had names.

an early drawing post-truck

The odds of a sinkhole opening within me were approximately equal to the odds that I’d find the right word at the right time. Or – even more important – the odds I could build a bridge to my child. A bridge we could sustain.

The average human heart will beat three billion times over the course of a life. That’s 3 with 9 zeroes. I would add more zeroes if I could. I began making very small collages, about 2 1/2 inches square. I liked making things that stayed themselves.

collage and paint with pen

In year three, I got into three dimensions, using salvaged wood and began building homes for birds. The homes hatched about 1200 babies a year.

I built this home for birds from recycled wood.

I painted this bird.

About five years post-accident, I began painting birds. They have carved three-dimensional bodies and I paint each — with a bit of gold — in very thin layers of color and light.