I thought I was going to be an artist when I grew up, and I was almost right, only now I design with software instead of pencils, paint with words instead of acrylics and use a canvas made of liquid crystals instead of stretched fabric.

But I still love real art, and real artists, and will occasionally pick up a brush or make some little cartoons or sketches. I like visiting art museums, and I’m a big fan of creative movements such as minimalism, surrealism, abstract expressionism, cubism. I appreciate skill, craftiness and near-photographic realism, but I’m more fascinated by the personalities behind some of the most whacked-out art: Warhol, Van Gogh, Dali, Picasso. Those are the guys who feed my imagination.

Art is a passion I may have inherited from my grandmother, who painted animals and country scenes and decorated wooden toys crafted by grandpa. She was still doing some painting here and there until she died, about seven years ago now. You can see some of her supplies and gear at this Flickr photo set, including this schedule from a painting class she took in 1980.

As a kid, I spent lots of time drawing and filling up sketchbooks with cartoons, parodies, sci-fi doodles, imagined faces, and even the occasional landscape. I also enjoyed writing little stories that went along with the drawings. Sometime I’ll have to post some drawings of “Ace,” my first cartoon hero, a ridiculous looking pirate-type dude that my brother teases me about to this day.

I was already a standout art student in grade school and middle school, so by the time I moved up to high school, my classes on drawing and painting were of supreme importance to me.

My freshman year, I was introduced to Steve Sams, a serious-looking man with old-fashioned glasses and a stern mustache. Contrasted against all the messy, frantic, free-spirited art teachers I had before, this guy was quite the disciplinarian. His classroom was clean and orderly, and compared to the creative work we’d done before, his assignments were stoic and regimented. He introduced us to art history and even gave written tests. All this was a rude awakening for many of the kids who had signed up for art because it had always been easy and self-directed, and several of them dropped the class. But while I shared some of my classmates’ reticence about Mr. Sams, I appreciated this new, disciplined approach to art.

By the beginning of my sophomore year, I had really warmed up to Sams, and he to us, now that our wild habits had been tamed a little. That fall semester, I spent lots of time chatting with him each morning because his was my first period class, and around that time I was getting to school very early in the morning. My locker was one of a few dozen located on the third floor right next to his classroom, and I would sometimes beat him to school and would hang out by his door reading or drawing in my sketchbook. He would often joke with me about it, asking if I had spent the night there.

Once inside, Mr. Sams would brew his specialty blend of coffee and turn on the stereo, usually something soothing like Enya. He had a collection of American Gothic parodies by his desk, and at the front of the classroom, there was a little sign that simply said, “Visual Communication.” Looking back, I was probably being a pest, but I saw him as a role model. With my parents divorced, my dad living in another state, my grandfather recently dead, and my brother off at college, Mr. Sams was the only man I could look up to.

One morning in November, I was sitting at his door as usual, probably drinking a carton of chocolate milk. It was nearly time for class, and Mr. Sams hadn’t arrived yet. When somebody else finally showed up, it was a classmate of mine. She was crying.

“What’s wrong,” I asked.

“Haven’t you heard,” she replied. “Mr. Sams killed himself last night.”

I was absolutely stunned. A substitute teacher arrived and asked us to get out our work from yesterday and continue. I had been working on an illustration of Eleanor Rigby, the Beatles song, and a rather fitting subject. “All the lonely people,” indeed.

The school counselors visited the class and told us they would be available all day in the library to talk to any student who was upset. Mr. Sams had committed suicide at his home, death by carbon-monoxide poisoning.

By fourth period, the rumors were circulating. Some said Mr. Sams had posted some really disturbing artwork in his classroom the night before. But after they described it, I knew it was one of my drawings they were talking about.

The drawing was of a female alien giving birth in space, with mother and child both crying. I recalled the conversation I had with Mr. Sams about it. He had asked me what the drawing was about, and I had just said it wasn’t really about anything. Then he told me his interpretation was that the female alien was crying because she was worried about bringing another life into this flawed universe. Those words struck me as I remembered he had just celebrated the birth of a grandchild.

My classmates had started to make fun of Mr. Sams. I just couldn’t take it anymore, so I made my way to the library, where I informed the guidance counselor that I was worried it was my fault he killed himself. The counselor did his best to disabuse me of the notion. He asked if I wanted to go home, but I decided to finish out the school day.

That evening when I got home, I told mom what had happened. But she was unconcerned, she simply had no idea how crushed I felt. And then the world just kept turning.

The substitute teacher finished out the semester, and I spent most days during first period hiding in the corner, crying my eyes out behind the drying rack. I decided to drop Drawing and Painting second semester. About four months later, Kurt Cobain’s suicide took center stage, and I started listening to Nirvana and contemplated taking my own life. What stopped me was probably an equal mix of fear and faith.

It was around that time that I drew the picture at right, imagining that Mr. Sams was still with me in spirit form, surrounded by a blue haze, like Obi Wan Kenobi.

By Junior year, I decided that I didn’t care about anything anymore, and I signed up for art class again. The school had hired a new teacher, Mrs. Gooch, who had replaced Sams’ American Gothic collection with pictures of Hillary Clinton.

The photo at top was taken my second semester back, with me surrounded by some of the fellow art students I idolized, especially Chad (the guy with the star on his t-shirt). Better than anyone, he exhibited the nihilistic attitude I was beginning to adopt. My senior year, I even painted a portrait of him (at right); the background is a parody of Mark Rothko’s Orange and Tan, a painting Mr. Sams had introduced to me.

It is painted with acrylic, the last medium Mr. Sams had taught me. It seems my instructive plan went away along with him, and I never learned how to use oils or an airbrush, as he had discussed teaching me. With Mrs. Gooch, it was back to undisciplined, self-directed, free-wheeling, anything goes art.

So from then on I just slathered old, broken toys with paint, or did portraits of Kurt Cobain where his head was splattered with blood and with brains dripping from the canvas. That was good enough for an A.