My head came up with a vision for a room. The kind of room where a person can really relax. Or listen to relaxing music. Or look out the window as the snow falls silently on the trees. Or take a nap. Or write a novel. Or, you know, read.
The Reading Room would have comfy chairs, dark bookcases, and a piano. In my mind, the children would be content in their quiet camaraderie on the carpet while I tapped out a few choice numbers on the piano (“Thank God I’m a Country Boy”; “The Search Is Over”; “Adon Olam”), the husband reading the newspaper in an armchair.
As my Reading Room came together — a lamp over there, a pair of chairs over there, an army of nesting dolls over everywhere — I realized that it needed a little something. You know, that extra something that would really make the room.
Art. I needed art.
More specifically, I needed art that depicts a scene from literature.
I started hunting the internet for art that depicts a scene from literature. I found lots of Shakespeare and Poe and Alice in Wonderland, but not a whit of Du Maurier or Oliver Twist or Grapes of Wrath.
That is when it came to me: why not create my own art? I mean, come on, how hard could it be to whip up a nice painting that represents the best of literature? How hard could it be?
I laugh at the sillyliss who was having these thoughts, because sometimes it’s like I don’t remember who I am. How hard could it be?
Above are three of the prints I ordered before deciding that I would create my own art. How hard–? Wait, yeah.
You’ve seen what I’m capable of: exploding marshmallow rice krispies; bad haircuts; bad art; bad hairstyles. Yet not only did I make this — I actually had the gall to frame it and hang it on the wall next to the other real, true, actual pieces of artwork.
If seen from very, very far away — across the entire room, perhaps — it really doesn’t look all that bad. And now I’m working on my “please, sir, can I have some more” watercolor. I can’t be stopped! Because how hard could it be…?