Meet Brent
I can’t ever remember not drawing. My parents encouraged my brother and me with art lessons when I was seven. Our teacher was Gracie Center. Every Saturday her back porch in Bridgeport, Indiana, would contain 8 or 10 kids. She was a good painter, a chain smoker whose legs would not work sometimes. She’d sit on the floor and laugh at herself. She taught us pastels first and after a year or so we’d get to move up using oils. We’d work from Walter Foster books and Arizona Highways that smelled like pastel dust and paint. Gracie died when I was in third grade. I thought she was pretty old, but my mother told me she was 39.
I paint all kinds of subjects, whatever makes me look.
