My mom was an artist. She welded big structures together and found beauty in barbed wire. She worked in clay. She even carved the female form out of giant pieces of styrofoam. She wasn't a big name or anything and probably only sold a couple pieces ever but that wasn't the point. For her, making art was like breathing. She had to do it. It wasn't for anyone else. It was for her.
I did not inherit any of her artistic talent but she modeled for me what a creative life looked like — the kind of joy and solace it could bring a person. I'd go even further to say it was an integral part of her spiritual life.
