Planting the seeds.

From words to art.

Simple.

Maybe.

Not.

 

Perhaps it is wise to not always know where we are headed, in that we can miss the details, the little things that add up in the end. I can tell you that the design of the garden pages came to life that day in the garden. I saw the paper, erose edges, like the serrated leaves on the stalks of my geraniums. I imagined beautiful watercolor florals. I bought watercolors, brushes, and paint pots. Little plastic palettes to mix and match the colors. I sat for hours in bookstores, thumbing through pages and pages of "the art of watercolors". Home, I set myself up with a flourish and a bow. Perched on my Adirondack chair, I began to paint.

Oops. Um. I forgot. I can't paint.

I can't draw.

Sketch-nope. Acrylics-not a chance. I don't even stencil well. I have always leaned toward coloring outside the lines. My cows look like dogs, sort of, they both have four of something. My students used to cringe and cover their eyes when I chalked a blackboard illustration. This is particularly awful, when your students are VISUAL learners. 

Back to the drawing board.

Not an option.

On my desk. In the corner. My digital camera opened its little lens and winked at me. Well, not really, but I am the author of this fairy tale and cameras are imps. Playful. Adjustable. Full of settings and foci, adding distance and depth. One finger. Click. Click. Click.

I can do that.

I can click Save.

My camera, a Sony Mavica,with floppy disks.

No snickering allowed. Please refer to your nearest World Book Encyclopedia, for more on the history of "floppy disks". 

I filled those floppy disks with perfectly posed petunias. 

It was August. On my PC screen, every flaw lay exposed. Wilted leaves and brown edged petals. I looked down at my hands on the keyboard. Hey, I said. I have a few of those brown spots too!

How about a makeover?

Photoshop...a touch up...softer lighting...some tender shading...

I may not be able to paint with watercolors,

but I heartily acknowledge

the benefit of a good concealer. 

That day, I gave myself permission to make a mess, color outside the lines, get my hands dirty, spill some ink, lose my train of thought, flub a note, fall off the beam, miss a turn.

I realized there was an eraser at the end of my pencil.

 I used it. 

                                                        ...to be continued

 

 

 

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