I was seventeen when I first heard about a man teaching the secrets of the old masters in the small town of Coplay, Pennsylvania. I did not know what it meant exactly, but I felt resonance - as if a long dormant gene was stirred and awakened.
My father and I decided to make the trek to visit Myron Barnstone. We arrived one evening and climbed up the two flights of stairs to his studio. Myron himself opened the door, meeting us with an authoritative force. His very presence scared me to death. With a cigarette dangling from his mouth and one eyebrow raised fiercely over his bifocals, he stared at me as if sizing up my capability. Then he looked at my dad and said, "You are going to spend $100,000 on Juliette's education, and she will be a waitress the rest of her life." Nice try Myron.
Studying at the Barnstone Studios was the hardest thing I had done up to that point. I was making up for lost time. Drawing, which had always felt so natural, all of a sudden felt cumbersome and awkward. My drawing got worse before it got better. Yet accompanying my frustration was the joy of total engagement. It was as if I had been given a new set of eyes. I was suddenly seeing connections, patterns, and relationships that I never dreamt existed. - From the book, "Lessons in Classical Drawing."