May 6, 2017:
But there was one teacher, who could, who took an interest. His art teacher in ninth grade. She caught him doodling abstracts in the notebook he kept — an avocation he worked hard to hide. Apparently he became overly absorbed.
It was a simple but colorful technique. With a pen he'd rapidly draw intersecting curves and spirals covering a blank page, whose interstices formed moon-shaped or semi-circular spaces he'd then fill-in with vibrant swaths of random-ish color. He used Papermate's "Flair" felt tips, at the time the only option available outside specialized art stores that offered a dozen different bright colors. The result was an 8.5x11 field of "psychedelic" color with a random-ish personality he found compelling. Like the shirts he sometimes wore: cheerful color in semi-random vibrant pop.
She caught him, and said, "That's interesting. You should continue to explore that."
Of all the shockingly unexpected things.
Art mattered to him but had always been dismissed by the adults in his life.
This adult encouraged it.
What was her name?