I am not an artist...my first renderings were not caught on film or saved for future gawking or twilight shows that serve free wine and light brie to black-clad college students looking to bolster their "I'm cultured" cred and get a free buzz. There was no wealthy patron, no Bill Gates endowment. If I look behind me there is no modern-day Medici.
No, because of my chosen (and only available) medium at the time and because it was the 70's-- some super-squeaky clean body part of mine was soundly spanked by the sauce-spoon (after the big decontamination hose-down and loofah scrub).
Attention daughters of mine: Don't ask me to draw a piggy in front of a big red barn walking single file with other piggies to only God knows where (we can talk about "where" later.)Here's your first lesson in the series I like to call "Mommy is not your perfect robot". Lesson 1: Mommy can only draw stick mommies, stick babies and box houses. And a daisy.
My hypothesis is-- the reason I can't draw is because I got a whooping after pooping and painting. And adding to the spectacular mural Mom made me. You see, my mother has infinite talent in the art deparment. Which corroborates my theory. Talent is genetic and it did not skip my generation.
I blame it on my mother. (because we always blame our parents for our deficiencies) Mom, I can't draw because of you. I was scarred. For life.
DISCLAIMER: this event may or may not have happened . Certain facts have been altered for your amusement (and probably not my mother's---sorry Mom--you know I love you and I know you probably didn't spank me with a wooden spoon until I was bigger and more ornery.)
Children are resourceful. And if not encouraged they will not unfurl their buds of talent. I could have been founder of a movement. My movement, the "Silent Spring" of the 70's.. Just think--if we all wrote in poo it would put bic out of business. We'd be so desensitized to bad smells that glade would glide away.
If we harnessed the energy that is baby poo we could perhaps save planet Earth. That's all I was trying to say, Mom. I wanted to write this message, to solve a modern dilemna and now it is hidden under blue 80's butterflies (how dare anyone wallpaper over that bucolic meadow mural?) and 14 assorted coats of Benjamin Moore.
I am sure I will be blamed for many of the deficiencies my daughters will claim. And that's OK because I would throw myself under a bus to save them (and displaced blame-placing is but a drop in the bucket in the grand scheme of things. )But I would rather take the heat for somebody not being a very good tuba player or yard-raker. Or artist.