Were we born with it?

When I first moved to Romania in October 2007, I met an inspirational woman named Maya.  Maya's a very accomplished painter, photographer, jewelry maker, art teacher, and a licensed psycho-therapist.  Just a brief visit to her website provides insight into the complexities and intrigue that make up this remarkable woman: http://www.mayarotaru.ro/ .

Two and a half years later, when I returned to Romania in March 2010, Maya contacted me and asked me if I'd like to take one of her small-group painting classes.  Prior to this spring, I had not picked up a paintbrush for at least fifteen years, or maybe more.  In March & April of this year, thanks to my International Tax Consulting Business, I was putting in ten to twelve hour days in front of my laptop, crunching numbers, corresponding with clients, interpreting financial documents, sifting through I.R.S. publications, and cranking out tax returns.  Painting lessons sounded like an awesome escape from the numbers, if just for a few hours, one day per week.  I had no idea how much I would love it.

Here's my first painting as a grown-up, a watercolor still life, a bit impressionistic (by accident), with tiny glimmers of hope for future painting success:

Since then, I've completed a few more pieces:  

This last one is a replica of 'The Laundress' by Stefan Lucian, a Romanian who painted in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.  Here's his original work:

After viewing a few of my paintings, my aunt emailed me with the following observation/remark, "I remember that as a grade-school student you were very good at artwork, but then I imagine there was not much time for it with all your academics, sports and music."  REALLY?  I was "very good at artwork" as a grade-school student?  a.) I don't have any recollection of enjoying painting and b.) I don't remember being good at it (let alone very good at it.)  And I think point a.)- not remembering enjoying it is the part of this comment that nagged at me the most.  Regardless of whether I was good at painting or not, why do I have no memories at all of painting, or enjoying painting, or being interested in painting?  I'm sure I painted- we had some paints around the house and every American grade-school kid in my generation painted at least a little bit in elementary art class.  But standing in front of a blank piece of paper last Spring with a paintbrush in my hand did not evoke even a tiny bit of nostalgia or memory of enjoying painting in the past.

Are we born with the ability to paint?  To sing?  To dance?  Does every kid have it, but then it just atrophies if we don't invest time and energy into these endeavors?  Can we all rediscover these skills as adults, if we're just willing to battle through the failures that will inevitably accompany the successes?