Art doesn't have to be Perfect

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.

Just smudges.

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.