Too bad I can't draw.
How many of us stop ourselves with these words.
I repeated them like a mantra for forty-one years.
I wish I were an artist, .... too bad I can't draw, repeated them until I couldn't.
Then one dark and stormy night, Mr. Bacardi Dark and I were having a drunken soliloquy.
I wish I were an artist, I slurred, too bad I can't draw.
But Mr. Bacardi Dark wouldn't have any of it.
I tried to prove it to him by smearing oil pastel pictures on copy paper.
See, I would say, I can't draw, oh I wish I were an artist.
I woke up the next morning, lying on the living room floor, surrounded by a dozen strange pictures.
I went to the art store and bought one canvas, one brush, and a tube of Red, Yellow and Blue paint.
It was instinct, I didn't have a clue what a primary color was.
I copied one of the pastels onto the canvas, and showed it to my next door neighbor.
He lied to me and said it was good.
I have been making art ever since.
Keep lying to me...