When I was a little girl, I liked drawing, freely and joyously making marks on the walls at home. In primary school, I learned to write using chalks. Writing seemed to be another form of drawing. I shaped individual letters into repeating lines, which were abstract forms, delightful but meaningless patterns.
In secondary school, art was my favourite subject. Since. I loved it so much I thought I was good at it. For the art O-level exam I had to present an oil painting. I found it difficult, but still hoped to pass. I failed, with a low grade. I'd been over-confident. Now I'd been declared talentless.
But other channels of creativity stayed open: I went on writing poems and stories. Still, I went to exhibitions often. I continued my habitual drawing, which I now characterised as childish doodling（乱画）. In my30s, I made painter friends and learned new ways of looking at art. However, I couldn't let myself have a go at actually doing it. Though these new friends were abstract painters using oil paints, or were printmakers or sculptors, I took oil painting as the taboo（禁忌） high form I wasn't allowed to practise.
One night, in my early 40s, I dreamed that a big woman in red approached me, handed me a bag of paints, and told me to start painting. The dream felt so authoritative that it shook me. It was a form of energy, giving me back something I'd lost. Accordingly, I started by experimenting with water colours. Finally, I bought some oil paints.
Although I have enjoyed breaking my decades-long taboo about working with oil paints, I have discovered I now prefer chalks and ink. I let my line drawings turn into cartoons I send to friends. It all feels free and easy. Un-anxious. This time around, I can accept my limitations but keep going.
Becoming a successful painter calls for being resolute. I realised I was always afraid of wanting too much. That dream reminded me that those fears and desires could encourage me to take risks and make experiments.
