It’s been years since I picked up a brush.I found myself singing and bopping as I mushed paint around the canvas.
I was completely and happily surprised at how good it felt. Something that was once second nature has become a treat. A retreat even.
Art lessons all those years ago- first in the basement of a retired artist- I was by far the youngest in the room. Copying designs off greeting cards and learning how to create flesh tones from the basic colors on my palette.
How serious I must have appeared about painting. Working with supplies meant for college students at age ten, squeezing the metal brushes close to its fine hair for better control. The instructor must have thought it was adorable, or maybe she knew exactly how I felt.
Much later during my University years, a double major in Studio Art AND English (the compromise to keep my parents happy). Hours were spent in the Art studio- long after my fellow students were playing beer pong and video games, I painted and repainted. I brought work home, sometimes in the snow and rain, which sometimes meant starting over.
I made room for Art in my life as naturally as it had when as a little girl. I remember sitting for hours quietly drawing at my grandmother’s dining room table. I’m not sure when I gave up on the idea of it all.
Travel and writing filled the places canvases used to occupy in my heart. Though I still remember ducking down to the art supply store in Munich to amuse myself on a weekend.
Last week I spent a few bucks on some shitty brushes, a cheap canvas and some children’s acrylic paint.
At that point the motivation was purely cost driven. I had been looking for artwork to decorate our apartment but it costs a small fortune. But when I lost myself for a few hours (or maybe I actually found myself) I felt better.
The result: My little abstract piece brightens me up as much as it does the room it hangs in.