I could've done that

I never really did art for anything or anyone but myself. Not for money, not even to give as gifts. Well, that's not completely true.

When my dad got laid off about a year ago, he had a small mid-life crisis episode. He bought a new car and ran away to France. When he came back, he was a little sad that he wasn't able to get pretty souvenirs for us or himself because everything was so expensive. So for Father's Day, I made him a black and white and gold nightscape of Paris. I wrapped it up with a card, and gave it to him at breakfast.

"You can use this in your new place in San Antonio!"

"Oh, thank you, honey! It's very well done! It must've been very meticulous." He put it on the shelf behind the breakfast table for the time being. It's still there.

I finished my project, and am a little disappointed. It's nothing special and nothing talented. There's this one area that I can't seem to get right. It's not the right shade. Not even after the 4 shades I put on it. And it's just water, just friggin' water. It happens with every piece of work, and when you point it out to someone else to get an opinion, they say "I think it looks fine. I don't see anything wrong with it." Of course not, but to my eyes, my painting looks all wrong. You just gotta accept it. I guess I do, and the imperfections make it mine.

I don't think I'd ever be able to call myself an artist. I don't work out of inspiration or appreciation of beauty. I draw sometimes to feel the grainy resistance of paper against my pencil. And I paint for the therapeutic silence of concentration. I hope that is some kind of beauty in itself.