Over the summer I started going to an art class on Tuesday nights. Just a local thing with a bunch of cool folks hanging out. There are several in the group who are truly very talented. Breathtaking works done in pen or pencil. One girl can draw with such detail that you can’t tell which is the picture and which is her drawing. As for myself, well, I’m a doodler. I did have one sketch of a black dress with flames coming up from the bottom that I’d like to turn into an actual, wearable thing- still looking for the perfect thrift store dress to attach a shit ton of feathers to for that idea.
There’s an upcoming art show in October.
I agreed to have a painting handy for the show.
Inside, I’m ready to paint. Yet, I stand at the back of my car, one hand holding onto the open trunk, staring at that blank canvas. Then I shut the trunk and go inside. I catch myself saying, “Not tonight, not tonight.” For me, painting is very soothing, but it’s also very draining. I have to paint my way. Which means completely alone, on the floor, with music blaring, a stiff drink and a pack of smokes.
I haven’t had a moment alone to really delve into what I see in my mind and transfer that onto canvas. The last art show I did was back when my husband and I first met. I believe we had only been seeing one another a month when he mentioned he’d be in the area on business. I had told him that a few of my paintings would be up at a well known coffee shop downtown. Looking back, he really took a leap coming to see it. It all sounds so funny now, “Would you like to come to my art show?” Yeah. I’m also a poet, I eat candy in CVS parking lots and I swig wine out of bottles. Wanna date me? He did and eventually upped the game- he married me!
That afternoon of the show, I was so nervous I thought I’d barf everywhere. My Dad and step mom came out to support me, which was awesome. Considering my Dad has like every painting I’ve ever done in my entire life hanging in the hallway going up to the tv room. It was interesting to stand with people and here them discuss what they saw or didn’t see in my brush strokes. To listen to them say it was total crap or very lovely.
And then they simply walked away.
No one bought any of my paintings that week, so I gingerly packed them up and drove home. One is hanging in my spare bedroom, the others? You guessed it, at Dad’s, where they are lovingly displayed in the hallway.
I’m anxious to paint again, but I don’t want to rush this. I want to see what happens when I let go of all my frustrations. When I paint, it tends to be darker than my own writing. Maybe something awesome will happen at this art show and I’ll sell a piece.
If not, I can always bring it to my Dad’s to add to the collection!