I had a brilliant idea the other day. The brilliance of this brainstorm is akin to a child (me) standing on the edge of the barn roof, ready to leap off with the understanding that before I hit the bank of snow below me, I would take flight and soar like a golden eagle over the fields of snow, through trees and along the bank of the mighty Rainy River, finally coming to land softly and gently at my back door. Seemed reasonable. Recent dreams were filled with my aeronautical wizardry, which I took as a clear sign that I most certainly could fly. However, both brilliant ideas, the one when I was eight and the one from the other day, didn’t go as planned and quickly were recognizable as a stunning disappointment. Let me explain.
My creativity this time of year is usually at fever pitch. Credit where credit due, some of my creative genius has turned out reasonably well, acceptable even. But many, perhaps most, of the fruits of my ambition have ended up in the heap of miserable failures. It never seems to deter me, a slow learner perhaps, because when November comes around my brain is on high alert to create some Christmas masterpiece. There was the year of knitting everyone socks. Not quite the hit I had imagined. The year of home-made jammies that came with a home-made fit. The paper Christmas trees were a nice touch and the mittens were okay. There was the year of the toques. There was the chocolate peanut butter cup fiasco.
Don’t ask.
I’ve knit enough dishcloths to circle the globe several times, and I can only imagine that some have their hands up shouting, “Enough with the dishcloths.” This Christmas I turned my focus to visual art, painting watercolour Christmas cards using my arthritic hand with the slight wobble to it. What could possibly go wrong? It’s a bit like watching someone walk a tightrope over Niagara Falls while nodding and thinking, “Yah, I could do that.” Perhaps watercolour painting is a little less dramatic.
I bought myself a new watercolour brush. My goodness, they are expensive, but the result would surely be worth it, I thought, justifying the expense. I cut my watercolour paper down to card size. I had my lovely sealer jar filled with cold water. I’m sure all famous artists use a glass sealer jar for their water. Use the right tools, I always say. I could have been an Olympic downhill skier if only I had a ski suit that matched my skis. I had paper towel for dabbing and cardboard to protect my kitchen table, with masking tape to hold my paper in place. I had a new set of watercolour paints that I cleverly bought on sale, saving myself a whopping $1.93. I had all the ingredients for success, or so I thought. I organized my kitchen table in preparation, water within reach, adequate lighting, a cookie nearby if I felt malnourished. I watched a couple of tutorials thanks to you-tube, all the while thinking, “Yup, I got this.” I was giddy with confidence imagining the beauty I was to create. I made my first brush strokes with a confidence that quickly evaporated and before much time had passed, I had forgotten one key ingredient – talent. You may have had an inkling, but I did not see that coming.
I haven’t given up. It will be December when you read this, so time is short and sharing my creative magic with Christmas greetings involves trusting Canada Post which is tenuous at best. I’ve decided to push on. I’ll send my masterpieces out and let the recipients assume I had my granddaughter paint them or a chimpanzee from down the road. I won’t go so far as to put Abby’s name at the bottom right edge or a chimpanzee toe print, because that would border on dishonesty. I’ll let those blessed with my good intentions make whatever assumptions they will. No one questioned Picasso about his artistic madness. I wonder if brain surgery could be an option for next year. How hard can that be?
wendistewart@live.ca
