We are both attacking the problem of Snowdrop's drawing. We have to: our paper supplies depend on it! The little girl is a determined artist, but nothing satisfies her. "The neck is too thick!" "I made the arm too fat! Have you ever seen anyone with such a fat arm?" "I don't like the shape of the head!" And so it continues. She wants to start anew. Again and again and again.
Ed tells her that the most famous artists painted over their mistakes. Of course, you can't really draw over something sketched with a magic marker, but the point is that no one paints perfectly (or writes perfectly or dances perfectly or does anything at all perfectly) the first time around.
Xray machines show entirely different versions of paintings underneath what you and I see, he continues.
This at least intrigues her: how do they do that? Having never broken anything, she's not that familiar with x-rays. He shows her x-rays of a hand, a foot.
From there it's a hop and a skip to youtube clips on help with drawing. She's not convinced. She likes her own style, even as these days, she is bothered by any imperfection. Ahah, let me draw for you the one thing that I can draw perfectly: a flying super pig.
The rest of the subject matter remains elusive.
*. *. *
The big cats are again harassing the little guys and there is not a thing we can do about it. I glare at the main culprits, even as Ed tells me that I'm just making myself feel better and accomplishing nothing.
*. *. *
The flower beds are less demanding in part because I am less exacting. It just doesn't matter anymore. I may be a perfectionist the first half of the growing season, but I'm very laissez-faire the second half. Nonetheless, I tidy things up a bit this morning. Even a garden gone wild deserves some grooming.
With time remaining for breakfast, on the porch.
*. *. *
Snowdrop is here for the better part of the day without her brother. The weather is absolutely perfect, but she resists staying out too long. Just long enough to admire the hydrangeas in the front bed...
... and to pick the fat tomato ripening on the potted bush.
(Still waiting on the full ripening of the peaches on our peach tree...)
*. *. *
The evening is so very quiet. The construction sounds disappear. The rural roads are mostly empty. It's as if the end of the week deserves this slowdown. A moment of reflection. A silent nod of thanks for being safe. For all this stunning weather. For ripening tomatoes and the blush of pink in the hydrangeas.
Ed tells her that the most famous artists painted over their mistakes. Of course, you can't really draw over something sketched with a magic marker, but the point is that no one paints perfectly (or writes perfectly or dances perfectly or does anything at all perfectly) the first time around.
Xray machines show entirely different versions of paintings underneath what you and I see, he continues.
This at least intrigues her: how do they do that? Having never broken anything, she's not that familiar with x-rays. He shows her x-rays of a hand, a foot.
From there it's a hop and a skip to youtube clips on help with drawing. She's not convinced. She likes her own style, even as these days, she is bothered by any imperfection. Ahah, let me draw for you the one thing that I can draw perfectly: a flying super pig.
The rest of the subject matter remains elusive.
*. *. *
The big cats are again harassing the little guys and there is not a thing we can do about it. I glare at the main culprits, even as Ed tells me that I'm just making myself feel better and accomplishing nothing.
*. *. *
The flower beds are less demanding in part because I am less exacting. It just doesn't matter anymore. I may be a perfectionist the first half of the growing season, but I'm very laissez-faire the second half. Nonetheless, I tidy things up a bit this morning. Even a garden gone wild deserves some grooming.
With time remaining for breakfast, on the porch.
*. *. *
Snowdrop is here for the better part of the day without her brother. The weather is absolutely perfect, but she resists staying out too long. Just long enough to admire the hydrangeas in the front bed...
... and to pick the fat tomato ripening on the potted bush.
(Still waiting on the full ripening of the peaches on our peach tree...)
*. *. *
The evening is so very quiet. The construction sounds disappear. The rural roads are mostly empty. It's as if the end of the week deserves this slowdown. A moment of reflection. A silent nod of thanks for being safe. For all this stunning weather. For ripening tomatoes and the blush of pink in the hydrangeas.
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