Our seven-year-old daughter loves art.
Our kitchen table, our hallway, our living room coffee table — there is no flat surface in our house that isn’t hidden under a thin layer of drawings she’s doodled. And when we clean them up to try to see the surfaces again, they’ve all been replaced before we can turn around.
For a seven-year-old, both the thought and the execution of the drawings are remarkable.
We’re still not quite sure which parent she gets this passion from. But I will say that I could barely churn out a passable, human-looking stick figure at seven years old. (Maybe that’s a good hint.)
Success! My artist wife didn’t fall in the pool.
The calm, aqua blue water beckoned all week from her workplace: A narrow, pool-deck perch with a small scaffold set up.
The scaffolding made the pool deck much more harrowing. It took up much of the width, leaving the narrowest of walking paths between it and a plunge into the deep, blue water.
As much faith as I have in my artist wife, Vegas oddsmakers would have closed the book, not allowing any bets. They typically don’t accept bets on a “sure thing.” They don’t like to lose money.
“It’s weird when it’s minus 30 and you’re rolling up to Starbucks to get a giant, iced coffee,” my artist wife once admitted to me.
Weird, she says? That doesn’t quite characterize it.
Who knows what artists are thinking?
I should have paid slightly more attention.
“I’m going to paint the closet door,” she said, sitting in her favorite blue easy chair in the corner of our living room.