Life in Prismacolor

Markers, that is. Prismacolor markers are the cat's pajamas, the cream of the crop, a top-notch line of the finest markers an artist can buy. I haven't used mine since I graduated from art school...that was 7 years ago.

I recently landed a job as an art teacher in a Catholic grammar school. Since I was an art student, I haven't created any meaningful art. Though I worked as an art director for 4 years and intended to make art for the rest of my life, I haven't considered myself an artist for several years now. Well, I guess I'm back in the swing! I have to identify as an artist to be able to teach art.

For each project I do with my students, I have to create varying examples to show. As an artist, I learn visually in all aspects of life. I would assume that all art students need visuals to understand, as well. I've been enjoying making art again, even if it is geared towards the elementary years.

Enter Prismacolor markers on the scene. I've been using them so much recently, that I've been thinking about incorporating them as a vehicle to record my story (of my impending adventure) through art. This all sounds so glamorous in my mind as I sit on my booty and type, but already having one epic adventure under my belt, I know how exhausting it is to work that hard. On my hike, there was nothing more that I wanted to do at the end of each day than to eat and asleep. I'm hoping I can muster up the energy from time to time to write and create. Writing is my priority, and creating will fall second.

So here's to shooting for the stars. I have high hopes of making some art along the way.

On Missing Things

I’m having one of those “I’m really missing the AT” kind of days. It’s a reoccurring trend, but today I feel like I need to write about it.

I was browsing some photos earlier and was reminded of the beginning days of my hike; the cold and snow, waking up to frozen shoes, the deadened brown flora, the layer of chub on my waist, the smiles, the miles, the junk food and the routine. Pictures of shelters flooded my memory of crowded, communal living on frigid nights in the Smokey’s. Snapshots of so many faces flashed through my brain; the hundreds, or probably thousands of faces, I met. These wise words from a third grader that I’ll never forget: “You can hike this trail!” I remember when watching a movie was a novelty, and that’s a severe understatement. Playing UNO as dusk settled in, on top of Tray Mountain. I miss my tent, my sleeping bag, and the hard ground I called my bed. I’d give anything to snap my fingers and rewind the time, if for just one day.

Life was, good.