One of the heart-breaking things about my mother is that she was cut off from her dream of dedicating her life to being a painter. How many of you have loved doing something and then were not allowed to do it? That's the background story of my childhood.

Here's how the story unfolds:

• Mother loved painting watercolors
• Her family refused to pay for art school
• Raising her own family took time away from her art
• Despite her lessons, I was a mediocre artist

My mother loved art galleries. She knew all the impressionist artists and shared her knowledge with my sister and me. It was her lofty dream to emulate her heroes, like Monet, Gaugin, Seurat, and Renoir.

In the beginning, she drew constantly. As a high school student, she excelled. Several of her illustrations were published in national magazines. She won regional awards. Her paintings and sketches hung in her hometown library.

She loved creating watercolors, painted good ones. One is displayed in an art gallery at Stanford University. I have several hanging on my walls at home. My favorite is a small general store she found somewhere in Arkansas.

My favorite of mother's watercolors, a small general store in Arkansas.

But there just wasn't much call for professional artists in northwestern Montana,. Her mother was a widow supporting three children. When it came time, Grandma paid for her oldest daughter to attend Eastern Washington College of Education.

That oldest daughter, Gertrude, was then expected to pay her brother's way through the same school but he chose to enlist in the Army Air Corps.

So instead, Aunt Gert paid for my mother's education. No art school, just tidbits of art classes intended to coach her how to teach a broad spectrum of subjects.

Grandma told mother, and I think this was a direct quote—"artists will never make any money. You will be a teacher."

My mother worked hard as a teacher. First she taught third grade, making sure art curriculum was integral to her lesson plans.

Then she taught junior high art for 30 years. She was a good teacher, but her heart just wasn't in it. Most of the time, I think she saw it as a way to support her family with an income.

She made sure her students were well-grounded in the basics, and the enthusiastic ones had plenty of opportunities to advance to higher levels.

Several of my friends told me she was the best teacher they ever had.

Me... I wasn't impressed. Sure I took her art classes. Sure I did all the projects. Sure I spent hours at my desk creating art... meeting her objectives... getting passing grades.

But my heart just wasn't there. I preferred other ways to communicate. I wrote for the school paper, took photographs for the annual, competed in writing contests, freelanced for the weeklies in our area.

For the most part, mother was supportive. She paid part of my tuition to journalism school. She always talked about my successes.

Still, there was always an element of disappointment in her voice. I learned to draw rudimentary trees and rough-edged shadows.

My perspectives followed all the basic rules of architecture and realism. On the color wheel, I could identify complementary harmonies and relationships.

It wasn’t enough.

What she really wanted me to do was... watercolor. You see, along the way, she ran out of time and energy to be the artist she’d been in her youth. Don’t get me wrong, she continued to love watercolor and had books about it on her coffee table.

She gave me a set of expensive watercolors for one birthday and supplied me with the finest papers. On vacations, she made sure we took trips to gorgeous settings.

But it was a skill I just couldn't master, no matter how she guided my hands. I smeared. I dripped. I created more brownish browns than pastel blues or greens. I finally gave up.

Except for a class in art appreciation to help me achieve my history major, I took no art classes in college. It didn’t bother me to neglect that part of my education. I had plenty of writing and other history classes to make up for it.

Looking back, I realize I was reluctant to perform to her standards. I enjoyed writing and still do. I write poetry and I'm working on a novel. I contribute articles for nonprofit websites.

But the closest I got to being a genuine artist is being handy enough to hang her beautiful watercolors on my walls.

So you tell me... should I have tried harder to be a true visual artist? A true watercolorist? Should I have done more to please my mother?

I think secretly, she was proud of my version of creativity.

© 2026 Michael Heavener