Cousin Kate and I have been taking Saturday morning painting classes, which is probably the reason I have not torn my hair out from working weekends. Saturdays mornings, we drive out to some outdoor beach site and establish a little artist station on the grass with our easels. We mix paints under the shade of a tree and with the breeze blowing through our hair, we create works of art with the sounds of the ocean in our ears.
But “works of art” is a loosely defined term. I will take the liberty to describe mine honestly as bad works of art. Now, before you assume I am exaggerating, take it from the girl with the fine arts degree, they’re BAD. Bad as in awesome, but also bad as in terrible.
Before I took my first painting classes I thought painting might be my hidden talent. I pictured myself as a prodigy, and vaguely believed that the moment I touched a brush upon a canvas a work of genius would sprout from under it. I took my first painting class as a transfer student at MICA, where I quickly made a name for myself as the photography student who couldn’t operate a paintbrush. Just my luck that I was placed in a class with freshman who would all turn out to be painting majors.
Thankfully, I am not offended by my lack of talent at painting. I long ago learned that it is more important to try and more fun to learn than it is to attempt perfection at everything you do. I view my painting just like I view my piano-playing. I will never win any accolades or fame from either, but not to worry fans, I have many other talents and skills that will win me all the accolades and fame i could ever hope for or want in life. Both painting and piano-playing are incredibly relaxing for me, and while I will never produce much of value in those arenas, I appreciate the willingness of the general public to tolerate my efforts. And who knows? I could be wrong, and maybe I am only now developing a genius for painting. Watch out, art world, here I come.