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.