So Vicki has an artist friend who finds it difficult to paint in the summer. Fellow authors, let us shed a few tears for this poor oppressed artist. If only I could be so lucky as to have the talent she has. Maybe I was born too late. I picture myself out in the fresh air with my easel, my staw hat, my canvas and my tubes of paint creating masterpieces that would hang in museums all over the world. Passersby would stop and stare in awe at the landscapes I'd painted. I'd be lumped with Monet, Monet, Pissarro and Renoir. The money would roll in. Although living the simple country life, I wouldn't really need it. Goodbye 21st century with your computers, e-mail and Internet. I've returned to the 19th century and I don't miss cars, TV or rap music. As for writing those books I used to do, painting looks so much easier. Just blob some paint on the canvas, stand back and give it a name. Like - "View From My Adjustable Recliner Chair." Or "Exhausted Author in Overgrown Garden." "Deserted Desk." " or "Former Writer in Hammock" That's what's called Impressionism!
What would you be if you weren't an author? Artist? Psychotherapist? Veterinarian?
No comments:
Post a Comment