Yesterday’s post about Orlando the 11-year-old headhunter got me thinking about my attempt at adult art class. Have you ever tried to pick up a hobby only to find you’re really awful at it? Like, you knit a sweater with one too-long arm or build a playhouse that crumbles with the first stiff wind or, I don’t know, try to run a marathon only to give up at mile 8 because the chafing had led to bleeding and was scaring the kids in the crowd?
That was me and art. I took a class with some lovely women taught by a lovely man, and here’s what I produced.
This was my first try. It’s a picture of my friend Jay. I thought it showed some promise. And then…
I tried drawing my brother. Things were quickly going downhill.
My older brother looked like a female mannequin on male hormones.
My sister looked like a bad acid trip.
I don’t even recognize this guy, and he was supposed to be my boyfriend.
And then, the final insult. This was my teacher. I packed away my pencils and started running. I stopped that, too. I need a hobby that won’t offend anyone.