Greetings all on this beautiful Tuesday. I woke up on the right side of the bed today and everything seems wonderful. It feels marvelous to be regaining my health.
So it occurred to me when answering a comment on a previous post that the act of writing is painting with words. Back before all the pandemic adventure I announced to my teacher in class on day, “when I’m painting a picture I’m telling a story. When I’m writing a story I’m painting a picture.” Just kind of blurted it out. Didn’t quite sink in at the time how important and personal the concept was.
Since my art teacher can’t hold classes, we’ve been corresponding via e-mail. I expressed that I felt that I was just being a silly old women with an expensive hobby. She pointed out that my art was part of who I am, whether I’m actively painting or not. Also that viewing my painting and writing as a “hobby” kept it separate from myself as a trivial activity that I could drop at anytime, instead of being an important part of myself.
So without further adieu, here is a painting I’ve been working on. It’s an unfinished work in progress. The title is Turbulence. It’s reflects my life recently which has indeed been rather turbulent. I won’t go into details at this time, just believe me it has.