Dancing In The Dark

A long number of years ago I fancied myself to be an artist. I played with brushes for awhile, graduated to smearing paint on canvas with a knife, a saw, even once encouraged a small child to wallow across a canvas barefoot. (True story. Unfortunately, the child was half way across my kitchen before I could catch her ...)

And then I discovered the airbrush. With no effort at all I could produce ten paintings at a time, and they were so utterly bazaar that utterly bazaar human beings would purchase them and hold them dearly close (figuratively speaking.)

I digress.

It was shortly after I started detailing the neighbor's dog that I saw a pictorial in NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC supposing what other planets might look like.

My immediate reaction was "I can do that," and, placing cans on black canvas, happily sprayed up a storm - sometimes literally.

The cans sold easily. All of the paintings - seven of 'em - sold, except one. I was surprised. The one to be found wanting was of an exploding star, and by a fluke looked not too bad.

That was years ago.

I found the thing today while I was digging Christmas trivia out of a closet.

I know, I know. This wee tale sounds suspiciously like a writer over/under stimulated.

Could be. But how, then, do you explain this dumb thing?

j