Melting Winter

All around them, though out of sight, there were streams chattering, bubbling, splashing and even (in the distance) roaring. And his heart gave a great leap (though he hardly knew why) when he realised that the frost was over. - from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis

It happened just like this. Or something like this. Or maybe my facts are all screwed up. In any event this one event was a seed among many in my journey to pursuing my passion for art.

I walked down the icy sidewalk bracing against the frigid wet wind blowing the snow off the dark trees around me and finally found the door I'd been looking for. In small white letters I find the name I'd been looking for and the number 2 stuck beside it and realized I'd found the right place. Buzzing in I took a rickety metal elevator upstairs opening to a welcoming artistic space.

Received by a warm and hospitable handshake that juxtaposed curiously against the cold outdoors I took in my surroundings as the snow melted off my shoulders. On the wall to the right I saw encased many beautiful books and paintings by various students and a quick tour through many white studios showed art and innovation underway most earnestly even in empty spaces.

Entering a high-ceilinged office the gentleman and I sat at a round table surrounded by walls of books and papers with large windows looking down on the snowy street. Then he asked, "So, why are you here?" I paused not sure how I could explain my passion for art in a simple sentence. Not knowing where to begin with all that had brough me to that place. But I began and then my journey spilled out. I spoke of my passion for music and my background in graphic design. I spoke of my drawings and joy of art since I was a child. I spoke of my world travels and various art I had experienced along the way. I couldn't hold back my excitement.

Listening quietly and prompting me every so often, he replied with a voice that reminded me of Tony Curtis in "Some Like it Hot". He told of how he enjoyed playing jazzy music on his saxophone but his Grandma discouraged him demanding he do something more productive with his life. And he told of other voices along his path that attempted to discourage him from his dreams. Hearing him speak in this way I was humbled and captivated by his relentless pursuit of his art. I was also awed that he would spend his valuable time with a random fledgling artist like me. After talking at some length he gifted to me a book in which he inscribed:

"Bethany. Follow your bliss. - Marshall Arisman."