|Painting the virus|
This morning, I wanted to paint. I'm not an Artist. I think I've drawn and painted not even a dozen times since kindergarten. I stopped drawing when I was five after a teacher took my rendering of a tree, scribbled and colored over it and handed it back to me. Letting me know this was the proper way to draw a tree. I couldn't bring the pencil back to my paper after that. I froze.
My partner bought me a paint kit for my 54th birthday last year. For the last few months I've added colors to the kit, acrylic paints I picked up at the dollar store in the messy overflowing craft aisle, an extra $30 splurge at the local art shop for a yellow that reminded me of photos of farms I've seen of Provence, and various brushes I didn't think too much about, just tossing in the carry basket.
When I first got the Art kit, I actually painted with brush and than finger painted with sparkles a Christmas tree. I gave it to my mom. My partner and her complimented the colors and that it really looked like a tree. I was thrilled.
After, that painting.
Nothing appeared discernable.
I quit painting.
This morning. I needed to paint like I need to write. For some only God💜dess known reason, I wanted to paint the virus. So I started from there.
It didn't matter if my painting was good. I just wanted to feel the brush, I let it dance in my hand, following the strokes with my feelings, staying out of my head. Big strokes. Big color. I didn't judge or critique.
I lost myself painting.
And that is what I needed. I didn't need the painting to be good. I don't need anyone to like it. It doesn't have to sell.
I just needed to color my feelings.
The painting is not finished. It is leaning on the side of the front porch in the sun. Drying.
I don't know if I will finish it. I don't know if I need to finish it.
Creating art doesn't have to be perfect. It can just be therapy. A way for the soul, the spirit to express itself without explanation.