For a few months now, a couple of ‘girls’ (at what point do I have to start calling women, women…or ladies) and I have been getting together: once a month, to do art. Each of us brings our own project to work on. And, with snippets of conversation interspersed here and there, we manage to do what almost never happens for mothers of young children: spend two uninterrupted hours doing something creative.
Four months after the Gort was born, I took a break from work and stayed at home with him. I needed some sort of outlet, so I decided to sign up for a ‘class’. The only class I could find was an ‘introduction to watercolor’. I’d never painted. I’d never even drawn. I considered myself to be fairly inept where art was concerned, but I needed to get out of the house once a week. So, with the professor’s encouragement, I signed up for the watercolor class.
It was fun, and different than anything I’d ever done, so after the introduction was over, I signed up for a second class. And then a third, even though I’d gone back to work by that time. During the third session, I decided to attempt a portrait. I had this lovely eighteen month old babe at home, it made sense to try and paint him. ‘It’s really hard to paint people,’ my instructor warned when I ran the idea past him. But I’m stubborn and when I have my mind set on doing something I’m rarely dissuaded. Much to fifteen years of the professor’s chagrin.
Many hours/weeks/months later, I had a portrait of our oldest cherub. And, when I finished it, I knew: if we had any other children I’d have to paint one of them, too. That, or saddle myself with a lifetime of ‘you painted a portrait of him, but you didn’t paint one of me?!’
So, in April. Of 2009. I sketched a drawing of the Hen at eighteen months. And……..in November. Of 2010, when the Hen was three years old, I finished it.
If I start Percy’s next month when he hits the eighteen month mark, it might be done by 2020.