I don't have an artistic bone in my body. I can't sing. I can't dance, unless you count the adult ballet classes I used to take. Actually, I was kind of good. I can't draw, and I'm not crafty. I can't do anything Pinterest worthy. Maybe I can write, but that's about it, so when MJ organized a painting class for date night at Pinot's Palette in Liberty Station I was pretty sure it would be a total fail.
Maybe it's paint my numbers. It has to be, because when I saw what we were supposed to be painting that night I just knew there wasn't any other way it was possible to get people who haven't held a paint brush since middle school art class to replicate a beautiful painting. Painting the walls in your house doesn't count. There was no overlay, nothing to trace. We showed up to rows of blank white canvas and I figured that whatever I did would look like kindergarten finger painting. My fate was sealed. There was nothing else to do but drown my sorrows in a glass of wine...or two.
I was too busy drinking and nibbling off of the fancy meat and cheese platter MJ prepared to pay too much attention at first, but eventually I hit my stride. It went a little something like this. Sip wine. Brush paint onto canvas. Sip wine. Dip paint brush in water. Blot. Brush strokes on canvas. Sip wine. Mix black and white paint. Flip the canvas upside down. Sip wine. Add a little bit of white paint to the blue paint. Eat cheese. Brush strokes. Blend. Sip wine. Sip wine. It was so much fun!
|Mine on the left, the one I was copying on the right. I added more leaves after MJ pointed out my bare branches|
Now. What to do with our masterpieces? They are not allowed in MJ's room, because the contemporary Neo-Classic aesthetic clashes with the Buffalo Bills motif, but I must find a home for them somewhere in our house.