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“Folk art” usually is defined as art created by amateurs — self-taught individuals who are compelled to get creative by some force within.

In that sense, “folk art” is the opposite of “fine art.” The line between the two is ill-defined, but the difference between Rembrandt and Grandma Moses is clear enough.

Over the last dozen years, I’ve developed an appreciation of folk art that I didn’t have earlier. For a long time, I simply dismissed and ignored it.

Which is odd, since North Georgia, where I’ve lived for the last 35 years, is prime folk art territory, home to many accomplished and successful potters, painters, and other folk artists. Around here, folk art museums, galleries, and festivals are everywhere.

How dismissive of folk art was I in the early days? Allow me to elaborate.

One Saturday in the early 1990s, I visited the small town of Summerville, Georgia, to see Paradise Garden, the home and studio of the celebrated folk artist Howard Finster. Finster, now deceased, was famous back then for his religious primitive art.

Frankly, I went because of a sort of morbid curiosity. I wanted to see Paradise Garden for the same reason I wanted to see Rock City and Graceland. To me, Finster’s art was tacky and silly. The place where he displayed thousands of his creations was bound to be tacky on a spectacular level. And it was.

To be fair, Finster did have a degree of artistic talent. He was able to paint passable images — of angels, himself, Elvis, Hank Williams, “Leonardo Divency” — that were far better than anything I could manage. Still, it’s called primitive art for a reason.

In case you don’t know much about Howard Finster, let me fill you in.

Finster was a poor country boy from Alabama, born in 1916. He was “born again” at age 13, began preaching at local churches at 16, and eventually became a Baptist minister.

In 1976, after moving to Georgia, Finster had a vision. While fixing a bicycle in his workshop, he looked at a paint smudge on his finger and saw a human face.

“Then a warm feelin’ come over my body,” he reported, “and a voice spoke to me and said, ‘Paint sacred art.'”

For the next 25 years, that’s what he did. He transformed his yard into Paradise Garden, four acres of old buildings, junk-strewn paths, paintings, and sculptures made from assorted pieces of wood and metal.

Over the years, he produced 48,000 pieces of his art, all dated and numbered in the order he created them.

He was fond of making plywood cutouts of his subjects — Coke bottles, angels, spaceships, people — painted in bright enamel. Many featured Bible verse and admonitions to lead a pious life.

In his day, Finster was very popular. Celebrities and gallery owners visited Paradise Garden often, as did many young couples, hundreds of whom he married in his “World Folk Art Church.”

But on the day of my visit, Paradise Garden was quiet. Only a dozen or so people were strolling around the grounds, one here, two there. Finster was talking to a few of them in front of his workshop. As I browsed nearby and eavesdropped, I realized he simply was preaching a sermon to them.

When the visitors departed, I introduced myself. Finster shook my hand, then resumed preaching.

I’m not sure what I expected, but I was disappointed. He talked for 10 minutes nonstop, telling me about Jesus, quoting scripture, talking about Paradise Garden, and describing some of the  nearby art pieces. But he never once asked about me — who I was, where I lived, why I came. He simply didn’t care.

When fresh visitors, arrived, he switched audience and continued with hardly a pause. I took the opportunity to slip away.

That day, I spent about two hours at Paradise Garden. The place was interesting, if somewhat rundown and junky. Much of the metal art was faded from being outdoors and exposed to the elements. I understand it’s in such disrepair today that some of the buildings have been condemned. His heirs are raising money for restoration.

I didn’t purchase any of Finster’s art that trip, and I should have. For $150.00, I could have taken home four or five pieces that today would be worth thousands.

But at the time, I thought his paintings were simply bad, and I was peeved because the guy was so full of himself.

That was 20 years ago. Somehow, over time, my taste changed, and I found myself seeing certain types of folk art in a different light.

For example, whereas I once had no use for face jugs, I began to find them intriguing. Today, I own a dozen face jugs by various artists. All are fairly small and of little real value, but I enjoy having them.

Likewise, I remember the first time I saw a painting by John “Cornbread” Anderson, a local fellow whose work caught on and is now displayed around the world. For my taste, his art was a bit crude and a bit pricey.

Yet, for reasons I can’t explain, his style grew on me. Today, I own five Cornbread paintings, one of which he generously painted to my specifications.

So, I gradually acquired a taste for certain folk art, and I began to collect pieces here and there.

Not long ago, I was obliged to buy a glass display case to house all the pottery. Suddenly, Cornbread was competing for wall space with my enlarged photos of scenery and grandkids.

I’m reminded of my evolution in this matter because I just attended the 21st annual Folk Fest in Atlanta.

Folk Fest is a pretty big deal, always featuring 100 or more exhibitors of folk art from around the Southeast, including many artists and gallery owners I’ve become acquainted with over the years.

In the interest of full disclosure, I came home with four purchases: a pottery jug emblazoned with a dashing rooster; a small green paper mache frog covered with pink and orange dots; a big-eyed ceramic catfish; and an eight-inch-tall “R” fashioned from rusty barbed wire.

For me, the highlight of Folk Fest was a conversation I had with a local potter, whose identity I discretely won’t reveal, but whose work is popular and ubiquitous hereabouts.

I had just bought the ceramic catfish from him, and as he was wrapping it, he asked where I’m from and how I make a living.

I told him I live in Jefferson and have been a writer all my life.

He stopped wrapping and looked at me.

“Oh, man, I wish I could do that,” he said wistfully. “If I could write, I’d write about how God made the animals ‘special’ — how He made their souls gentle and kind.

“People can be sneaky and mean, but animals ain’t never like that. God gave the animals child-like spirits. He made ’em content with what they got.

“Yeah, if I had the talent, I’d write about my dog. That dog is the most wonderful creature I was ever privileged to know. I never saw so much love and kindness in one place.”

Having made his point, he asked more about me. We chatted and shared observations for a time, until other customers required his attention.

It was a delightful moment. Also quite a contrast to the way Rev. Finster presented himself years ago.

Not buying a few original Howard Finsters back then was a mistake — shortsighted and regrettable. That’s what happens when you allow emotion to cloud your judgment.

I’m trying not to let it happen again.