Paint. I don’t paint. My aunt paints. She loves it. And she is good at it. She loves the impressionists and loves bringing us to the Art Museum. We wander the quiet halls, gazing with respect at the “Works of Art”. Some of them are amazing, even my un-artistic self can see the talent weeping off the canvas. I wonder if I could paint, what would I paint?
I guess in my way, everyday I am working on my masterpiece. Every morning when I get up early to type away at my dream. In my head, Claude Monet. Filmy and romantic and so gorgeous you stare, for hours, with your eyes, yes, but with your heart and your head. Maybe that is what I hope, and oh, I do hope that!
And then when I wake my kids and shuffle, beg, cajole, tease and sometimes downright push them to get ready for their day. Is it Jackson Pollack? Mad splashes of color all over the place? It often feels like that. No rhyme or reason to the mess that is falling from my paint brush but powerful and moving. Amazing those connections.
As I go through the necessary motions of work to pay the bills. This must be some cold, blocky industrial art, two, maybe three colors – black, white, red. Cold but someone somewhere sees the value. It’s just not making my heart thump and my eyes widen to take it all in.
Pickup the kids from school and start the routine. For all the scrambling to get homework done, and get to music/dance/scouts/practice, this is paint by numbers. Follow the instructions, do not waiver (and don’t be late!) Who am I to say Georgia O’Keefe didn’t start with paint by numbers? In those in-between spots, maybe there is true art there. A swipe of the brush, a swirl of the paint, works of art.
Then evening. Norman Rockwell? Oh I wish, I dream, I sweat and I dash that paint brush about trying to capture some Norman Rockwell, but there may be some Calvin and Hobbes in there, truth be told.
This is our life. Were it to hang on the walls of the Art Museum would some approaching (ahem!) middle age woman find it stunning in it’s beauty? Would she see the how the individual brush strokes make a glorious painting that is sweet and bold and warm and it came from my heart? I don’t know. But this is my masterpiece, painted with love, every day, in every way.
Linking up with Lisa-Jo Baker for Five Minute Friday