Ah, to be a baseball widow again. It's that time of year, you know. But this year is so different. Or rather, I should say, what a difference a year makes!
Last night MathMan and The Actor had a baseball game, The Dancer was doing her thing at the studio and The Pussies for Peace were huddled in a sequestered location, plotting to do something big about the torture pictures. As you might expect, they are hissing mad about the whole nasty affair. The smell of poster paint hung thick in the air as I passed by the closed door and I could hear the furious pace of cutting, taping and message development. I decided it best to leave them to their important work, knocked quietly on the door, set the tray of food on the floor and got the heck out of there. They scare me when they are so earnest!
So there we were, Garbo and I. She'd just awakened from an after school nap and I was sipping wine and surfing the internets for some hotel info for work. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she asked if she could have some lap. Without hesitating, I pushed back from the desk, making room for her.
Knowing that I'd get no real work done while I snuggled with her, I closed my work windows and asked what she'd like to do. Not being fully awake, she didn't answer. The I remembered something I'd been meaning to do with her for quite some time.
"Remember that artist's blog I told you about?" She nodded in answer. "Want to see it now?" She nodded again.
I opened Steve Emery's gallery and we spent the next half an hour or so looking through his work, opening some paintings to take a better look and discussing some of them. We lingered over this painting and talked about how it looked like the perfect illustration for a story. Next thing we knew, were were making up a story to go with the painting.
Garbo started to squirm around and climbed out of my embrace. I let her go reluctantly. I watched as she started to pace around the room. "What would you like to do now?" I asked. Her eyes went immediately to the shelves next to me where we keep the art supplies.
"Can we go sit on the deck and paint?" she asked as she reached for the watercolors.
"Of course. But I think I might draw instead of paint," I told her as I got up to go fetch my Edward Gorey book from the reading room.
A little while later we sat facing each other at the table on our deck. The sun was in the early stages of setting. Evening sounds filled the air as our neighbors washed cars, splashed in swimming pools and didn't make their barking dogs shut up. Somewhere high in the trees behind me a bird kept calling "pretty boy, pretty boy, pretty boy!" At least that's what it sounded like to Garbo and me.
I flipped through the pages of the Gorey book and watched Garbo as she paint
ed with mustard yellow and magenta. She chatted some with me as she painted, keeping her eyes mostly on her paper. At one point she asked me what I was going to do. I picked up a black pen and removed the lid to examine it. "I might try drawing something....." I answered vaguely.I can't draw.
She hummed some while she painted. I opened the sketchbook and lay it before me, running my hand over the thick, creamy paper. What could I draw? I thought of susan. She creates gorgeous stories with her words and ink drawings. I could never draw like susan. Why bother? I picked up another black pen and considered it.
Garbo raised her head and looked at me. The pretty boy bird sang out again. Pretty boy, pretty boy, pretty boy!
"So?" Garbo said, cocking one eyebrow at me.
"I want to draw, but I don't know if I can......." I sighed.
Garbo held her paintbrush in mid-air for a moment as she looked at me. "Mom. Just draw."
And so I did.
I'm not ready to show you my drawings, but here's one by Garbo.
Garbo and I plan to seek more artistic inspiration using the internet.
Our next stop in our visits to artists who blog will be here.
Garbo and I plan to seek more artistic inspiration using the internet.
Our next stop in our visits to artists who blog will be here.
