Over the last few years I have got back into painting.
The smell of turps could often be detected wafting under my bedrom door as a young teenager and, unlike some folk I went to school with, I wasn't drinking it. I was quite an avid sketcher, chalker, charcoler and painter in my youth, getting an A grade GCSE in Art and Design and I always regret not studying it further. Then life took over, uni, drinking, pizza, drinking, clubbing ... did I mention drinking? And my art took a back seat, so back seat it was practically in the boot.
Then for some reason I suddenly got the bug again.
Buying a house might have something to do with it, and furnishing the house with our own taste and style (don't get me wrong, the donations of furniture from well wishers who knew we had little was gratefully received, and appreciated, but there is a time to call in the bin wagon and replace everything with stuff we actually liked) And that went for the artwork too.
As a teenager posters adorned every square inch of free wall in my bedroom, as an A level student one wall was covered in revision notes and scrawl designed to help me study, and as a university student my walls were covered in hundreds of weird and wonderful photographs of my mates doing weird and wonderful things . . . usually after drinking.
Now, as a sophicticated adult (no sniggering) I like art on my walls.
I am not talking about a bunch of dogs playing pool or a tennis player scratching her arse, I'm talking about original absract stuff that no one else has. I do own a few prints from Ikea that I imagine everyone in Europe has somewhere in their house, but the rest of the stuff is mine. I'm no Leonado Da Vinci, in fact my talent runs into the abstract because frankly even the stuff supposed to resemble something . . . doesn't. There was one piece, however, that was a dramatic abstract sweep of pinks and reds that my art critic of a husband took one look at and said "Is it supposed to look like a vagina?"
I painted over that one.
It does no good to get disheartened over my stuff, no matter how amatuerish I think it is sometimes. At the end of the day I have painted a couple for people, sold one or two and that makes me an artist available for commission, I suppose. Sounds good doesn't it? If I ever need an ego boost I just log onto one of the many sites out there dedicated to showcasing up and coming artists and their exhibition, my favourite is the one funded by the Tate.
If they can sell a piece of scrap paper with a smiley face drawn in coffee for £1200 I think I stand a chance, don't you?
