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?"
And with that, I rest my case.
|I peacock ... or a bowling pin with feathers?|