Craftsmanship, from My Parents to Me Mohammad nikpour

My work area watches straight out of Mad Men. Its dark lacquered complete and calculated legs give it a 60's vibe in the midst of the tan covering and orange dividers of my lounge room. A defensive tangle, covered with Sharpie imprints and X-acto cut checks, lies to finish everything. When I was pretty much nothing, encompassed by my dad's canvases and stepmom's nitty gritty pencil illustrations, I would sit for quite a long time at the work area, feet dangling off the seat, and more than once tune in to Harry Potter on tape while doodling with my father's markers or building houses from Legos. Directly down the lobby is the Christmas present I gave my father at age fourteen, a representation of Wallace Stevens, a normal looking man. Looking back, I locate my decision to draw him amusing, however, he's my father's most loved writer. "Another craftsman in the family," my grandpa prodded, as I exhibited this present on Christmas morning. The remark tossed me. I pondered, am I a craftsman?

I have been encompassed by workmanship my entire life; my folks met in craftsmanship school and still paint, in my father's words, as an "individual creative examination." Growing up, each Tuesday night, my father would give me craftsmanship...