If a blog is all about sharing the writer’s feelings, hopes, dreams and frustrations, then this, dear Reader, is a true blog post.
THE ARTIST, THE MUSE AND THE HOUSEWIFE IN CONFLICT
Dear husband is acting as referee.
It’s happened a number of times already.
I’ll be standing there in front of an art display gazing at what appears to be an explosion at the corners of Confusion and Obtusion – truly a sight to make eyes sore – and I’ll say, “I could do as well.”
And my dear hubby will say, “No, you couldn’t.”
Or I’ll be standing in front of a canvas, seeing in the middle a rough yellow square bordered by a slap-dash green box, bordered by kindergarten-type blue stripes and I’ll say, “I could surely manage something like that.”
“No you can’t,” says Bob.
What a disappointment to be told I couldn’t make a mess as good –or as bad– as that! How I long for a blank canvas and some paint, just to prove him wrong!
It happened again a couple of months ago. We wandered into a home furnishings store and I paused to look at a painting of what appeared to be a road wending its way through hills and into a valley. The hills on each side were lined with impressionist-type ferny green trees; in the center was a valley that consisted of layers of green and yellow; dabs here and there represented houses and foliage. Then in the distance, as it were, streaks of blue to define coast and sea.
“I could do that!”
“No you couldn’t.”
“Just a few splashes here, a few dabs there; a few streaky lines. Surely I could!”
Ah, there’s the rub. Dear Hubby knows my tendency to dive into new hobbies all gung ho, then the glow wanes and I never finish them. He knows I have books and sewing projects waiting to be finished.
This is why frustrated people go to psychiatrists rather than relatives. And for sure pick someone from a different church. You can tell a professional counsellor what you feel, what you aspire to, who hinders you, and they don’t know you well enough to contradict. They can’t say, “Remember the time you bought that treadmill, promising to exercise faithfully? And how long did that last?”
For years now I’ve had this deep longing to dabble in paints. Maybe it started when I took that art class back in Quebec and watched the others at work with their oils. Meanwhile I did my thing with pencil crayons. How high-brow is that?
I told the instructor I didn’t know if I should attempt painting but she encouraged me: “You have a great sense of colour; you’d do well at it, maybe even achieve some renown as an artist.”
Her words have echoed through my brain and tickled my fingers ever since. A spark of hope led me to buy a paint-by-number kit at a garage sale back in spring – for only $1. I had every good intention but alas, it’s still sitting on the closet shelf.
(Mind you, paint-by number isn’t the same thing at all. No inspiring creative swirls and streaks there.)
Sad to say, my muse and the housewife in me, abetted by dear hubby, have ganged up on the artist and locked her in the dungeon of never-enough-time. Will she ever escape?
Or should she even? If we allowed her freedom, we’d have to find her a room somewhere in this overflowing house. The Muse would have to share her space and she’s not willing.
To be concluded tomorrow…