This is a revised version of a post from years ago
A while ago I attended my first art class since junior high school days
"Look with new eyes,” the teacher urged
"Colors don’t have to make sense"
"Don't be afraid to be tacky"
"When you think you’re finished, it’s just the beginning"
“Stay open at the top”
Scattered across the table were tubes of acrylic paints —
bold reds and pretty pinks
lime green and forest green
a yellow so lemony it made my teeth hurt
orange and eggplant
sixteen shades of blue
I freaked out
Then I pulled myself together and
painted a bright red spiral in the middle of my canvas
It looked like a squiggly piece of pasta
A few minutes later I
painted a few yellow circles
next to the red pasta
I painted lots and lots of circles —
the full moon
over and over and over
The woman sitting next to me looked over at my canvas
“What beautiful suns,” she said
And I said “thank you”
I felt like the little prince in the book by Antoine de Saint-Exupery
when he draws an elephant being digested
by a boa constrictor and the well-meaning
relatives mistake it for a drawing of a hat
But I didn’t correct my sister-painter
because she had used the word beautiful
She didn't say “you stink at this”
and for that I was grateful
even though my moons
would now be suns forever more
