All my life, I wanted to be an artist. When I was young, I traded a macrame belt for a charcoal draying of my cat Tao. The artist was someone I met at the Mystic Art Festival. The first of many artists I would meet over the years.
I was fascinated with the artistic life. They seemed so carefree, enjoying life. Now I know better.
In any case, after wanting to be an artist for approximately 50 years, and collecting many books on the subject, I finally took a class in basic drawing.
I found out I have no artistic drawing skills. I also found out I need hearing aids, but that is a story for another day.
I remember years ago when my Dad had Alzheimer’s, he made a birdhouse. He created a lot of things in his life — furniture, built-in bookcases, a child’s cradle, etc. By the time he made this birdhouse, he had lost his skills. It resembled something bizarre that Picasso had drawn. Don’t get me wrong, I like Picasso’s art, but Dad’s creation was not a standard birdhouse at all.
I was reminded of the birdhouse when I took the art class. I couldn’t translate what I was seeing to the piece of paper I was drawing on. It wasn’t good, to say the least. I was embarrassed. I knew I had no business being in that class, but since I paid for it, I attended all four sessions — hoping I would get something out of it.
What I took away from it was a sense of sadness that my imagined artistic ability would never be realized. I vowed to give away my books and return to writing fiction and poetry. Adult coloring books and Zentangle art are now the extent of my artistic leanings.
I still appreciate artists and invest in local artists whenever I can. When I look at the art on the walls of my home, it is just one side of the story of my life.
Besides, before I hung up all the artwork and quilts on the walls of our new home in 7B Idaho, we were picking out colors to paint. Now we don’t have plans to paint for a while, because the walls are mostly covered.
Peace.
K