Oil Painter Laments Lack of Talent; Basks in Joy of Putting Colors on Canvas

Fortunately for me, but Unfortunately for the world, I have a wonderful support structure. Why is this unfortunate? you may ask yourself. Well, I've begun oil painting, as I mentioned. And it brings me such joy. True joy! Hours seem like minutes. Happy, happy, happy. La la la!

I am creating things. And they are really, really bad. Because, despite my joy and enthusiasm, I--quite frankly--have no talent.

I know (and appreciate!), because I am a key player in other peoples' support structures, that I will receive positive reinforcement in my oil painting endeavors. I mean, what can be done? Your friend (wife/daughter/sister/niece/aunt/sister-in-law/co-worker/neighbor/client/granddaughter/daughter-in-law/granddaughter-in-law/lawyer/niece-in-law/woman-who-sits-next-to-you-sometimes-in-the-coffeeshop/etc/etc/etc.) thrusts an oil painting in your face, she's looking at you expectantly, wearing a broad, eager grin...you know she's a talentless lawyer and, well, this thing...this, painting, you suppose...it's not so bad, really...so, you say "hey, that's pretty good." Shit! Encouragement! Next thing you know, she's giving you a 5' x 5' oil painting of your cat and suggests that you hang it over your mantle.

So, like, I know the deal, right? I know I'm bad and that I can't trust my feedback. But...it so fun...

When Shad came home Monday evening I immediately ushered him upstairs to the Sky Lounge to check out my latest masterpiece. (Latest? Let's not be silly. It's my first and only. But anyway.) He said (and I'm sorry I cannot convey the appropriate infection): "Hey! That's not so bad!"

This is high praise. My husband is an artist, and, while very loving, he is honest.

I've been working on the painting all weekend. He looked at it again last night. "Hey, baby...that's pretty good!" Pretty good!?!? Shit, yes! "I'm really proud of you." Beam, beam, beam!!! That tree in the livingroom sprouts a few extra leaves.

I worked on the painting all afternoon. Shad is at the office, and here, alone, staring at the thing, I'm faced with the reality of my pathetic-ness. It looks like crap and I know it. But there is nothing to be done about it. The wheels are in motion. I will go to work tomorrow with paint all the way up to my elbows; I will come home and finish the thing; I will mail it off to its intended recipient; and I will wait for a phone call: "Dude, what is this? ... well, I can see you worked very hard on it. This is...sweet."