The creative pull

I’ve always loved art but have been overly conscious of producing bad art. My mother was an accomplished artist. My daughter is an accomplished artist and art teacher. I am just a dabbler, especially skilled at producing unmemorable pieces.

But things have changed. No, my art hasn’t improved. But I am faced with a serious diagnosis.

And I no longer care if I produce insipid art or stupid art or never-let-this-picture-see-the-light-of-day art.

I just want to paint.

So I have taken over my daughter’s old bedroom, set up an easel and some tables, and used a birthday check to buy some saturated, lovely acrylic paint.

With my annoying inner art critic silenced at last, I am having the time of my life. And the creative energy is carrying over a bit into the rest of my days, helping combat chemo fatigue.

I have discovered this little outlet of pure joy, and it is feeding my soul.