Behold

For Imperfect Prose Thurdays

She said, "an artist friend of mine is willing to come and do a watercolour workshop. Would you be interested?", in reply I said that "stick people is about how far it goes for me in ability, but I'll think about it." But my heart said, "oh wouldn't that be lovely?"

I've always taken great pleasure in looking at paintings. It's incredible when one strikes your soul and all you can do is stare.

However when it comes to my own artistic skill, I see a picture in my head, but somewhere between head and fingertips the image becomes distorted. What appears on canvas isn't exactly what I had in mind.

With all this distortion in mind I went to this Monet watercolour workshop. I saw new and familiar faces. Saw beautiful roses in an old vase. Saw books of great artists paintings.

My friend in her whimsical way said "oh this will be fun!" I gulped and saw blank canvas.I remembered when I was in grade two, and I drew a picture of my teacher, but when she saw it she thought I was being cheeky and making fun of her-oh dear that truly was distorted!

However, I decided to throw caution to the wind and started painting. Suddenly the canvas was awash with fields of fiery red flowers and tall grass. I smiled inside. I thought of that teacher. I wasn't being cheeky, I was just offering up a piece of myself.

I carried my little painting home. No, it wasn't a masterpiece, but I felt good.

I gave the painting to my husband a few days later on our wedding anniversary. Offered it with a big smile. Offered up a piece of myself and he said: beautiful.

Peace,
Ruth

So today I start to blog, in response to Emily's creation of imperfect prose on thursdays. This is a completely new adventure for me, and I appreciate being invited to take part.

I thought this poem that always touches me, would be an appropriate start to imperfect prose thursdays.

When Earth's Last Picture is Painted, 1892
(L'Envoi to 'The Seven Seas') - Kipling

When Earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,
When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died,
We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it-lie down for an aeon or two,
Till the Master of All God Workmen shall put us to work anew.

And those that were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair;
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comets' hair.
They shall find real saints to draw from-Magdalene, Peter, and Paul;
They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!

And only The Master shall praise us, and only The Master shall blame;
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame,
But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They are!

Peace,
Ruth V