Musings of an Italian-American Catholic wife, mother, and writer

Musings of an Italian-American Catholic wife, mother, and writer

Thursday, November 6, 2014

I am an artist at heart, but my execution stinks



Last night a friend organized a Van Gogh and Vino session. It's a wonderful concept: gather a group of friends, and with a glass of wine in one hand and a paintbrush in the other, you are given step-by-step instructions on how to create your very own masterpiece.


Now, I truly believe that I have the soul of an artist. I feel colors with my heart. I dream of shading and brushstrokes. In my mind I see blank canvases of daisies sprinkled with raindrops, a covered bridge on a foggy morning, or an old man napping under the shade of an olive tree.  It's all there ... I can feel it ... but I cannot bring it forth.


Case in point was last night's Van Gogh and Vino session. Maybe there was too much vino and not enough Van Gogh because even though I felt the artist within me stir, by the end of the evening what appeared on canvas did not match what I saw in my heart and soul.


And if I needed any confirmation of the fact that I am not an artist, Joe calls me from work.


"Hey, I saw that painting on the kitchen table this morning," he says. "Did Timothy do that in art class?"


Sigh.


And with that, I rest my case.


I peacock ... or a bowling pin with feathers?

1 comment:

Do Not Be Anxious said...

Looks like a wine bottle with corks flying everywhere, to me. Shows where your mind was ....