The therapeutic effect of a canvas and paints never ceases to astound me. I am the first to admit that my skills are low, and by low I mean that I paint with my fingers and my pictures look like a kindergartener painted them. But for some reason I cherish them a bit. Perhaps its because I only seem to paint with people that I like, or maybe its because I crave that feeling of accomplishment. Or maybe I just like getting paint on my face. Or perhaps I like the fact that silence while painting exudes concentration and not awkwardness. All plausible options. Regardless, once the paint is washed away and all that is left is a picture to be placed on someone elses wall I feel content.
You bought a set of paints. And then brushes, ones that I may envy because mine are crap. We painted because I wanted to the first time, now you seem to thrive off of it. Is it okay that I secretly smile about your art knowing I was the one that got you back into it? You impress me. So lets paint one portrait and I'll hang it up.
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