Happy Little Clouds: A Writer Tries Her Hand at Painting

Happy Little Clouds: A Writer Tries Her Hand at Painting

Last night, I tried my hand at painting. I’ve already been barred from painting walls, because no matter how careful I am in the beginning, the paint always ends up splattered in places it should never be. But I thought painting a tiny canvas would be different.

Wait. I should back up to where my obsession with Bob Ross began.

For Christmas, my aunt hosted a painting party, and I came away with a snowman that actually looked like a snowman: three round white circles, a red hat, a carrot nose, and eyes. Though my (almost) four-year-old daughter was so disturbed by the snowman’s “angry” expression that she took an orange marker to his face, I was pretty proud of my first attempt at art and wanted to do it again.

So I cajoled my artist neighbor into hosting a painting class for me and one of my cousins. I put on my painting hat and my hippie scarf and my barn boots and drove my silver minivan seven miles through the snow to her house (in this part of the country, that’s still considered a neighbor).

My neighbor served us some Nespresso from her machine, and with a fire blazing in the stove, we got to work at her farmhouse table. In the beginning, just like when I begin painting a wall, I was very careful where I placed my brush. But over time, I began to lose concentration. I put a little dab of paint here and there—really going for the abstract look.

Instead of mountains, my tree line could’ve also doubled for a bridge. My clouds could’ve doubled for grass, and my grass could’ve doubled for clouds—meaning that if you turned the picture upside down, you couldn’t tell the bottom from the top.

I glanced over at the other paintings and contemplated switching my cousin’s canvas for mine, since they would both be signed with the initials JP.

But I know stealing is wrong, especially stealing from someone who knows where you live. Resigned, I put down my brush. “It’s kind of a relief,” I said. “At least I know I haven’t missed my calling.”

Later, after I’d consoled my creative angst with Cheerios and was preparing for bed, I thought about that comment, and that I have done absolutely nothing in twenty-nine years to cultivate my painting skills.

If I had listened to my teacher in fourth grade or our family friend, both of whom took time to encourage my art, by this point I might have mastered more than my daughter’s paint by numbers book.

Instead, for the past twenty years, I have focused on writing. I have read until I’m near-sighted. I have listened to hours upon hours of audiobooks. I have written blog posts about everything from toilet training to dogs. I have written novels that will never see the light of day, at least in their original forms.

A friend of mine told me once about an artist who, each morning, drew a rose simply to sharpen his skills. So I think about that when it comes to painting and pottery: two of the arts I want to tackle over the next forty years. I can, no doubt, develop these skills over time. But I want to develop my writing skills more. I never want to reach the pinnacle of this creative labor of love.

Instead, even when I’m too old to pick up a pen, I want to continue writing. I want to live up to what Erma Bombeck said: “When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left and could say, ‘I used everything you gave me’.”

Here is some creative inspiration for you. 😉

In the comments, share what creative medium you want to tackle over the next ten years.