On Jan. 3, I was suddenly seized with the desire to paint, after years of letting that enjoyable pastime lie fallow.
I dragged out my little red toolbox full of old acrylic paints, found a pad of heavy paper, installed myself in the sunporch and began. My acrylic paints were ancient… the remnants of a flirtation with decorative painting that I had at least 20 years ago. Sometimes I would go to squirt out some paint, and had to pull off the caps and drag out big dried hunks of paint before I could find anything wet enough to work with.
Purists will say that I should have thrown out the whole mess and started over, but I like making something out of nothing. Reclaiming the lost. Plus, I didn't know how bad I would be and I didn't want to spend a lot of money just to make a mess.
I am kind of happy about this one, but I will be honest: I wanted it to be hydrangeas in a clear glass jar. When I discovered that my abilities could not come close to achieving my vision, I just changed gears.
What can be discouraging about art is not being able to reproduce the picture you have in your head. I have decided to let go of that, as best I can, and just enjoy creating. I am an amateur, after all.
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