I don’t generally consider myself the type of person who has an ego-problem.  I like to think, even, that I am somewhat humble, or at least I try to be.  However, every now and then I think that someone, somewhere, with some say in the matter, decides to send me a little insurance to keep it that way.  That is, every once in a while I set out to work on a painting and I am struck by how utterly and terribly awful I am.

I currently have a goal to have a couple new (smaller) paintings ready by Easter weekend to deliver to the shop, and so tonight I planned to really dig in and get some work done.  I think that I actually did the visual world a great disservice tonight, as every time my brush touched the canvas I made the world a little bit uglier.  I am not exaggerating.  Frustrated, I picked up my sketchbook and an odd assortment of mark-making tools (red sharpie, black prismacolor, graphite pencil and some scrap-booking pen) and found that the only thing I was able to do was scribble, outline those scribbles in red, and then scribble some more.  I was a kindergartener.  Maybe younger.

Earlier today I had a training for work and spoke with another woman who is also an artist.  She got me very excited about possibly collaborating on a mural this summer.  My curiosity about murals has been mounting for a while now, so our conversation seemed fated, divinely placed, in some way.  After tonight, though, I really must reconsider.  I’m not talking about just reconsidering the mural idea, I’m talking about reconsidering it all.  After tonight I think I should do everyone a favor and retire as a painter.  Trust me on this.