Thinking of things past.

Whether that brings joy, nostalgia, laughter or melancholy, recalling childhood memories reminds us of meaningful experiences that somehow shaped our raison d'être while sending us to the therapist's office.

In looking back, I recall moments of food debauchery, pretend Mighty Mouse-style flying and the building of tents using nothing but found items in the linen closet. But nothing stands out more than my creative moments interacting with the arts.

In their own words, some of my favorite Houston art mavens share their own early thoughts and memories.

Jenni Rebecca Stephenson
Executive Director, Spacetaker

My earliest art-related memories were of the piano bench or the ballet barre.

At age 3, I was put in dance class to correct my pigeon toe. And no one past the age of 5 escaped piano lessons in my household.

I was lucky to have a father so musically gifted I still prefer his voice to the world’s most famous baritones, as well as a mother whose drawings rivaled the best illustrations in my picture books.

But of course, I’m not prejudiced.

It’s very difficult to pick out one memory over another, since I was surrounded — no, immersed in art.

As a child, I remember attending the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston with my great-aunt (an active volunteer for over 50 years), exploring the Menil campus when it first opened, trekking out to the Orange Show to watch quirky films about Carmen Miranda, the piano concerts of Alfred Teltschik in wooden concert halls and the mysterious studio of Sharon Kopriva (who gave me my first sculpting tools).

There really was no escaping.

But most importantly, art brought us closer as a family. Sometimes you don’t know what to say to those closest to you. But when my brother played a Chopin Polonaise or my father sang a German art song, we didn’t need words.

I saw the same in the family of my first piano teacher, Connie Dvoretsky and her parents Peter and Barbara Schwalbe (a pianist and opera singer); or my first voice teacher Sharon Smith, her husband Buzzy (a pianist) and now, their daughter Coda (a singer); and even my first dance teacher, Catherine Kinard, whose daughter took over her dance studio and whose granddaughter was one of my last dance students.

Art is simply the way some of us communicate best. Though it’s not in your blood — it’s in your bones. And sometimes it resonates in your family and other times, it’s awakened when least expected.

Kris Becker
Concert Pianist, Composer

My first exposures to music set the course of my life on track from day one. Growing up in Altamont, Illinois, a town of but 2,000 people, I was in a rural agricultural community and my family’s business was a horse farm.

My eldest brother played blues and rock records and exposed me to such artists via MTV and VH1. My mom was a Tom Petty fan, and his music so captured my own imagination that I eventually wrote his fan club a letter expressing a desire to play in his band.

While I was learning to rock, mom picked up a cassette of classical piano favorites. Upon hearing the first movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, I fell into a trance and requested to hear it every night before going to sleep.
Music had already proven capable of transporting me to another realm, but it was classical music that reached the deepest part of my being.

For as long as I’ve possessed awareness of my existence, music has been my primary fascination and a musician was all I ever wanted to be. At age 3, I approached the piano in our home after never having looked its way and picked out a melody that I described as “just something that was in my head.” From there on, I would listen to whatever I could, reproduce it, then make up something of my own.

To play, to compose, to be a rock star and a concert pianist: All this was my desire as a kid, and it’s now my life’s work. I come from humble roots but have a family that encouraged me to develop my unique gifts and interests … and exposed me to some cool stuff. For this I could not be more thankful.

Sophia Torres
Founding Member and Co-Artistic Director, Psophonia Dance Company

As a child, I was fascinated with the The Wizard of Oz. It was a special occasion, a once-a-year treat and a religious sacrament that had to be watched the night it would air on television.

The world stopped for an evening as I fell through space and landed in Oz, a magical fairyland. I taught myself the rhythmical steps of Dorothy Gale, the Tin Man, the Scarecrow and the Cowardly Lion as they traveled down the yellow brick road on their way to the Emerald City.

What could be more magical and alluring than a horse that changes colors or meeting the great and powerful Oz? What could feel more dangerous than flying monkeys, dark fortresses and a wicked witch? What could be better than sparkling ruby slippers and the realization that "there's no place like home?”

I never tired of the story and faithfully watched it into my teens.

I was 8 or 9 years old when my elementary school decided to produce the play. I couldn't wait to audition! I did get cast but not as the beloved character Dorothy. I was her nemesis: The Wicked Witch of the West.

My mother was appalled. Fearing it was some kind of discrimination, she was ready to go down to the school and defend my rights. I convinced her that I really wanted to do the part. I didn't care which character I was. I got a part! A speaking part! In the school play!

I went for authenticity and covered my face with my mom's green eye makeup the day of the performance. I made my entrance at the appropriate moment, delivered my lines way to fast and proceeded to run around the stage for my dramatic melting death scene.

Only I got too carried away. I tripped over the water bucket and fell down the stairs backstage.

I could hear the audience laugh and felt my cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. I could have given up right then and there, but it was my first dramatic role; my big break into showbiz. So I convinced myself that “kicking the bucket” was an absolutely appropriate response and the highlight of the show.

I was the Wicked Witch of the West.