I went with my friend to the art supply store, the day before yesterday. Lunch and a movie were also on the itinerary. So you could say that it was a full, rich day. The good thing about this particular art supply store is that there is a Target nearby, and I needed to purchase peanut butter.
I don’t mind going to the art supply store. I find it interesting and inspiring . . . For a while. At some point I remember that I have no artistic ability. I like looking through the books, because I love art. That part is fun. At some point, I make my way over to the Sharpie rack, because I can use those to write on Post-it notes. Then I usually wander over to Target and purchase markers there.
Ever since I can remember, I have wished that I had the ability to draw; and I have been envious of those who posessed that talent. I can’t even work a coloring book properly. I stay within the lines, but it still comes out looking like a mess.
They say the key to drawing is understanding light and shadow. I have no clue as to which is which. All my drawings are two dimensional, but it comes out looking like a two year old with a crayon did it. I cannot draw a straight line, nor a circle. I have problems with depth perception. In cinematic terms: my drawings are more Barry Lyndon than Lawrence of Arabia. I can’t even draw a Necker cube that doesn’t look like someone dropped twelve matches on the floor.
And forget about painting. I can paint a wall–I can even paint a car–but not a picture. Bob Ross makes it look so easy. I used to watch The Joy of Painting because it’s very relaxing. That is until I think about picking up a brush. Back in the day, my mother thought I should give it a go, but I knew it would be a waste of time and money. My childhood paint-by-numbers looked worse than my coloring–and that’s saying something. Maybe I should stick to the guitar store. I cannot play, but I do know three chords. That’s something, I guess.