Clearing the Palette

Using Art to Work Through My Childhood Trauma

When I was 8 years old, my mother bought me my first paint by number oil painting set.

It came in a 9x12 box with a chipboard print (usually of a horse since that was my obsession), a plastic pot set of 8 colors, and a paint brush.

I could sit for hours painting those prints, but you know, I don’t think I ever finished one. Probably, because at that age, you have the attention span of a gnat. I also was a perfectionist and obsessed that it had to be perfect so if I painted outside the lines or a wrong color, I would just give up.

When I was 12, I stopped painting those oil prints. I remember the exact moment the decision was made. My mother would often get up in the middle of the night to get a drink of water from the faucet in the family shared bathroom on our second story. I was sleeping soundly when I was abruptly awoken by a raging rotund woman standing menacingly at my bedroom door, silhouetted by the glow of the bathroom light behind her.

“Are you trying to kill me?” she shrieked. “Is that what you want, for me to die?” came the next questioning accusation. She continued to hysterically yell and berate me at 2am while I coward in my bed crying. This went on for I’m sure only a few minutes, but it felt like an eternity to a young girl who had no idea what had happened until she shoved the glass baby food jar in my face and screamed “smell it!”.

I didn’t need to smell it; I knew what it was. It was the glass jar I used to clean the oil paint brushes in. After the brushes were cleaned, I would wash the jar out and let it dry on the bathroom counter. I had been doing it since I started paint kits.

This night, she decided to drink out of the glass and when she got a whiff of the solvent residue, it set her off into the tirade I had experienced many times before. An explosion of pent-up mental instability and emotional toxicity that I worked so hard to avoid during my waking hours. Now, even sleeping, I couldn’t escape it.

And so that night, I made the decision never to use the oil paints again. And I didn’t, not for another 43 years.

Recently, I found a local artist on “The Facebook” which is what my friends and I jokingly refer to it as my grown children have advised me only old people use that social media platform now.

Dusty is a 3rd generation palette knife painter. His grandmother was an artist who developed a palette knife painting technique, which was passed on down to his father, and then to him. Dusty is now passing down that same artistic training and talent to his children as well.

When Dusty asked if I had ever used oil paints before, I said no, because truly, I had blocked it out. I don’t even know that I realized I had been using oil paint. To me, it was just paint.

But then, as the paint hit the palette paper, the smell was familiar and calming. I knew it was a memory, but my brain had kept all that safely tucked away so it couldn’t harm me as I went through life.

I found I loved the technique of painting with a palette knife. There is a therapeutic side to watching the colors mix to become a completely different pigment. Applying the paint to canvas. Learning how to add highlights, shadows, and reflections.

Dusty brought all the supplies and for the next 3 hours he created a safe space for my 12-year-old little artist brain to come out, play, and heal. And that, was worth every penny.

It was my birthday yesterday, 57 years around the Sun. My partner knew how much I loved the class and surprised me by setting up another oil painting class for myself and 3 of my close friends. It was the best birthday gift I’ve ever received.

Believe me, there will be more because the Sonoran Desert offers so much beauty and endless possibilities.

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