The Lovely Mrs. Taylor and I have hit
that point in our marriage where simply being together is no longer, in and of
itself, cause for excitement and celebration. These days we need to “do stuff”
and go on “date nights.”
It’s supposed to keep the spark in
our relationship, which, in my opinion, is sparky enough already. But this is
not the sort of decision I get to make. Mrs. T is in charge of overseeing the emotional
well being of our plurality and applying the techniques required to keep it
healthy. I’m glad she does, too; based on my track record, the job isn’t one
I’m particularly good at.
So last Friday she booked us into a
painting class. For a mere twenty bucks per person, an expert artist would
teach us to paint a vase filled with blue flowers. The class where you got to
paint trees (my first choice, because it looked easier) was already booked
solid.
Now, I’ve never felt a desire to own
a picture of a pitcher of blue flowers, let alone two, but I figured what the
heck. Mrs. Taylor puts up with a lot of my baloney; it wouldn’t kill me to sit
for three hours painting blue flowers. Small price to pay to keep the home
front sparky.
And as I later discovered, they serve
wine at these things. Overpriced wine, but still, wine. If things got too
tedious, I had an alternative to rampant creativity.
Mrs. T was worried I might be bored
with the class, since I – believe it or not – actually have a bit of experience
with the Wide World of Art. My first job out of school was as a commercial
artist for a religious book publisher. Book covers, record album jackets; that
kind of thing. I lasted about six months before deciding the job wasn’t “artsy”
enough for me. I was young and stupid (as opposed to my current status: old and
stupid).
My exit from that job marked the end
of my involvement in all things artsy. My artistic skills, mediocre to begin
with, quickly atrophied. At this point, 40-odd years later, I reckoned, even
painting a vase of blue flowers would be a challenge.
As it turned out, the task involved not
one, but several challenges. The first was fitting in with my fellow students.
They – all 20 of them – lacked something I’ve had since birth: a Y chromosome.
Everybody else there had two Xs. The common term for this lack of a Y is
called, in the scientific community, “womanhood.”
I was the only guy there. Half the
class, in fact, was a bachelorette party getting started on what was shaping up
to be a long and boisterous night. Mrs. Taylor suggested I pose as a male
stripper to pick up a few extra bucks, but in these, my waning years, I’m not
confident young girls would be willing to pay me to take my knickers off. To
put them back on, maybe.
At each seat was an easel, a blank
canvas and a jar containing three brushes of varying widths. A young girl
stepped to the front of the room and instructed us as to which end of the brush
went into the paint and which was to be waved about to get the waitress to
bring more wine.
The bridal party immediately waved
that end.
The painting we were all supposed to
reproduce was actually so simple anyone could have painted it with one eye
closed. Maybe both. My somewhat atrophied artistic sensibilities gurgled to the
surface and I decided I would apply myself and impress Mrs. T with a
masterpiece to rival Van Gogh’s “Sunflowers” or “Starry Night.” She, after all,
deserves my best effort.
From that point on, I essentially ignored
the instructor. I, after all, was once PAID to do this sort of thing. Yeah,
that was 40 years ago, but still, how rusty could I be?
As it turns out, rustier than an
abandoned roll of Civil War era barbed wire left out in the rain and
occasionally doused with saltwater.
Oh, my painting looked great. At first.
Mrs. T even commented that my “showing off” was unseemly. But then I kept
painting. Adding, adding, adding. A little white here, a little black there, a
little blue wherever things looked bare or unexciting.
The mess I ended up with by the time
the instructor wrapped the class and pushed the bachelorette party out the door
to the waiting limo was … well, let’s just say nobody’s going to mistake if for
Van Gogh.
The family nature of this newspaper
prevents me from using the words that might accurately describe my painting,
but if I did, a lot of those words would have four letters.
Mrs. Taylor’s painting, on the other
hand, looks great. Genuinely great. We’re going to frame it and put it up in
the guest room.
She’s such a show-off. But I have to
admit, I’m feeling a bit sparky about her at the moment. Vive l’art!
(616) 730-1414
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