I Can Do That

 

 

 

She was nice. Not arrogant or rude or anything like that. She admired the desk. Her fingers moved across the painted surface.

 

"I could do that," she said.

 

I shrugged. "You probably could," I told her.

 

One of the women with her wasn't as nice.

"It's just a bunch of swirls," she told her friend, smirking at me.

 

I fought back a laugh. I've heard it before. Just as I've "fixed" the efforts of others too many times to count.

 

"Yeah," I agreed. "There are a great many swirls. But before the swirls came along there was a really ugly desk that had to be sanded and primed. A base coat of paint followed. After that I used three shades of turquoise, blending them together, to create a unique paint finish. Then came the swirls and stripes, twice. One coat doesn't cover. After that I put the highlights. Oh, and a couple of coats of sealer finished it off. But you could do it." I smiled.

 

By now the first woman's eyes were a little glazed over. She shook her head. "Maybe I couldn't do that," she said.

 

"Maybe not," I agreed. "But you won't know until you try."

 

I doubt she ever will.

 

Who knows? Maybe she could do it. I don't know and neither does she. But I can guarantee that should she ever try, she would have a new respect for the creative process.

 

What I do looks easy and I'm glad about that. But that doesn't mean it is easy. Or quick. Or obvious. When I look at something, I don't have a pattern book or written instructions. It comes from my imagination, from my vision, from something that rests deep inside of me.

 

That's how it is when you create art, whether it is painting on furniture, wood or canvas. The same is true for potters and glass blowers and those who create metal sculptures. The list goes on and on. We have a vision and we translate that to something others can see.

 

Something that sometimes looks easy.