Artist Envy

As a closeted writer I have tried through out the years to paint vivid, colorful pictures with my words. Sometimes I succeed and sometimes I fail miserably. Such is the path of the creative process.

If I were unable to write I would love to have the talent to paint or draw my ideas on a canvas. To be able to mix the paints, blend the charcoal or sketch with a pencil would be a dream come true.

There is only one thing holding me back: talent or the lack there of. In my minds eye I can see a tree, bare branches reaching for a dark sky filled with clouds threatening to at any moment drench the dry, dusty earth. The last leaves of fall scattered upon the ground. Maybe one or two leaves clinging stubbornly to a branch as the wind scatters their brethren before the coming storm.

Sure I can see all of that perfectly but I am unable to translate that picture to paper without the use of words. Any attempt to create on canvas what I see in my mind ends in unmitigated disasters. Lopsided trees with limp branches flat, without dimension cling to a canvas waiting for a spark of life that I am unable to bring to the page.

Hell, I cannot even draw a straight line with a ruler and a pencil; somehow the line ends up crooked no matter what I do. Five year olds picking up a paint brush for the first time can conceptualize what they see on paper in a believable manner while any attempt I make resembles the artwork of a drunk coming off of a month long binge.

Maybe one day I will discover some small talent using paints, chalk or charcoal. Until that day a pencil will continue to be a substitute for a brush and words will continue to be the color with which I paint.