When I was a young girl, I used to walk home from school on a street named 243rd Street. On this street was a house that had many flowers and a berry bush that would attract numerous orange butterflies.
I would stop in front of the house just to watch these beautiful creatures flying from one leaf to another. Eventually, I got brave enough to catch the butterflies and place them on my finger or hand. They would walk up my finger and my hand and would fly off.
I remember while the butterfly was on my finger, I would observe its antennas and its little black tongue. The butterflies had little curly black tongues that I guess they used to take the nectar from the blossoms of this berry bush. I felt while they were on my hand that I possessed a special connection with these little creatures -- as if they trusted that I wouldn't pull their wings off or smash them. (I observed my cousins pull the wings off butterflies on many occasions and thought it was a very cruel behavior to display.)
This memory has always stuck in my mind and I cherish the memory. Often when I see these same butterflies, my mind goes back to that time. Well today, the painting posted on my blog depicts this memory. I don't usually paint people, because it isn't my best artistic technique, but I figured since it was me as a young girl, I wouldn't insult anyone. I like how it turned out and now will be able to look at the memory as often as I wish.
I would stop in front of the house just to watch these beautiful creatures flying from one leaf to another. Eventually, I got brave enough to catch the butterflies and place them on my finger or hand. They would walk up my finger and my hand and would fly off.
I remember while the butterfly was on my finger, I would observe its antennas and its little black tongue. The butterflies had little curly black tongues that I guess they used to take the nectar from the blossoms of this berry bush. I felt while they were on my hand that I possessed a special connection with these little creatures -- as if they trusted that I wouldn't pull their wings off or smash them. (I observed my cousins pull the wings off butterflies on many occasions and thought it was a very cruel behavior to display.)
This memory has always stuck in my mind and I cherish the memory. Often when I see these same butterflies, my mind goes back to that time. Well today, the painting posted on my blog depicts this memory. I don't usually paint people, because it isn't my best artistic technique, but I figured since it was me as a young girl, I wouldn't insult anyone. I like how it turned out and now will be able to look at the memory as often as I wish.
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