MaryRoberson.com

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Mary Roberson Artist-painter-wildlife of the west

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My name is Mary White. I was born in Fort Smith, Arkansas, in 1948. The family relocated to Redondo Beach, California, where I spent most of my childhood. My love for art began at a very early age. I see, in retrospect, that I played games with this gift. Sometimes I tried to ignore it, and sometimes it just welled up inside of me until it won me over, and the gift got its way. It has always been a tug of war between getting out of the way to let it happen, and running a huge list of games to give it a hard time. The reasons for this ‘warfare’ are complex, deep rooted, and part of my character.

My parents always supported the pull of art in my life. At age 10 the Guadalupe Church in Hermosa Beach, California, commissioned me to paint a fourteen-foot mural. It was a landscape, and it was as if I was the medium through which the scene appeared. This sounds ‘mystical,’ but art is mystical, and creativity is even more puzzling. It seems to happen effortlessly when the self goes on sabbatical, which comes and goes like the ebb and flow of the tide. I attended high school in Redondo Beach, and my teachers took a personal interest in my love for art. They encouraged me, sensing, I now know, that I had a wonderful gift that required cultivation and care, especially in contrast to my rebellious nature. They saw something in me that I often tended to minimize and down play. They kept my head above water while I dallied with my own demons and problems, which I have finally come to understand.

By age sixteen, I had developed my own style of painting. It was my nature to shun formal training, partly out of rebellion, and partly because I sensed that “art lessons” might impair or somehow damage what was already complete inside of me. I began to win awards. Recognition put me into the limelight, and I found this very uncomfortable. In truth, I was defending a fictitious, negative opinion about myself and it is with some sadness that I must confess that this took precedence over art, my gift, and even my happiness. I was locked into a pattern of sabotage, and, in fact, I abandoned art altogether, but not deep down in my heart. The gift never left me and I could feel its presence in the background. It was rooting for me to get on with it so it could find the light of day. Even in the depths of sabotage, I would sell my sketches to survive. It was as if art itself was my secret life preserver. It was my best friend. It never abandoned me, and it was always there, in the ready, just in case I was ready to get on with my life.