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I am one of the first artists ever—from 35,000 years ago. They call us Homo sapiens sapiens, meaning not just wise, but very wise. I talk. I laugh. I cry. I am a woman of Dordogne, France, living along the banks of the Vezere River, in the Périgord Valley. I call my house a rock shelter, not a cave. Because a cave is in darkness—no light no life.
Even though I am a woman, the group has taken me off a woman’s job of gathering fruits, berries and nuts. I go with a few men to paint in the caves of Lascaux. They call me the imaginative one.
Every morning as I walk past the fragrant hazelnut trees to the entrance of the cave, I picture what I will paint. Not from reality, but from memory and inner visions.
The flickering light from oil lamps bounces off dark, damp cave walls as I forge deeper into the sanctuary. I hope no ferocious saber-toothed animal lurks beyond. That could be my end. But I take courage. I need to create.