Sixty-something woman shares ruminations as she plys the latter third of her life with the caveat that age entitles her to be absolutely outrageous whenever possible.
Saturday, September 01, 2012
Hit me with your best shot...
Not only did I step WAY outside my comfort zone and join a local Center for the Arts (in my hometown, actually), where the artists are all de riguer and ever so edgy, but I am entering a show they are having next week. It is a Salon event, and they will be covering the walls floor to ceiling with paintings in a great mosaic of art. Members hang first, so we get the prime eye-level locations, and I will be there bright and early to hand my Cow Love piece which I created especially for this event. You see, I worried that my pastels would fade and get lost in the melee, so I wanted something you couldn't miss in the crowd. And now, I am worried that you can't miss it, and it is not up to snuff, and what was I thinking anyway? Ah, tender little artist ego. Frankly, no one went tsk tsk when I filled out my form and handed over my check to join this prestigious group of artists in a tiny podunk town in Northern California. I am a real artist, as far as THEY are concerned. Now to begin to believe it myself. Ready to sign it and send it forth hoping someone will fall in love with it. Of course, it is not exactly what I had in mind when I started it. Paintings often have their own ideas, you know. Love it when that happens.