I’ve been doing some painting lately.
No, not the kind of painting that you do on the walls of your house. To that I say, “I don’t paint.” Besides, you wouldn’t want me painting the walls of your house. I’m horrible at it.
And I’m not much better at painting on a canvas — but I’m getting there.
I just finished up a picture of a hummingbird. Much to my shock, it actually looks like a hummingbird. Until now, I’ve stuck to simple things like flowers and the like. I’ve actually gotten pretty good at flowers. The hummingbird is OK, but the two flowers it’s scoping out are awesome! I’m hoping that makes up for the obvious flaws in the bird.
It’s a present for a friend of mine, so I guess I’ll let him be the judge.
All this painting, though, has got me thinking about my mom. Now she was a painter. She’s still with us, thank the Lord, but I say “was” because she doesn’t paint anymore. Somewhere along the line she lost the bug and I, for reasons I don’t really know, seemed to have picked it up.
I have all of her old painting stuff, including a cache of oil paints I found. That was a big score. Have you ever priced paints?
Anyway, working on the hummingbird made me remember my mom’s one and only foray into the world of painting animals.
She was a huge fan of Bob Ross — if you don’t know who that is, you’re just not a Hoosier — and as such, stuck mostly to landscape scenes. But one day she got the urge to try her hand a painting she saw of a raccoon.