This blog title comes from a journal entry I am using to make an artist statement. The book asked for the earliest memories I had in regard to art.

I remembered going into the Minneapolis Institute of Art as a child, and would walk up that magnificent staircase to the enormous wooden doors. Inside, the museum was always cool and quiet. It was a place that seemed so unbelievably magical. Inside the atrium, I tossed coins into the two-tiered stone fountain, earnestly wishing for something special, but never anything in particular.

This was my church.

I would first visit the marble bust of the lady with the veil. Leaning in closely, I would examine the mystery of this sculpture. Surely this object had been made by some half-god!

Then it was off to see the latest exhibit. Finally, it was up to the top floor and those beautiful, huge paintings. They were so impossibly complicated and lifelike, the colors and shapes so perfect.

This was obviously something people "used to do."

Each time I left, sure of only one thing. I could never, ever be a painter.