“Hey, can you come down to the studio for a minute, I want to ask what you think about something?” my artist wife said after popping her head around the corner into our living room.

Looking around to see who she was talking to, I realized I was the only one sitting there.

And then, after looking around again for anyone else I could pin this activity on, I realized I was entirely alone. The kids weren’t around and there wasn’t even anyone walking past on the sidewalk through our picture window.

If it hasn’t been obvious from previous Saturday Morning Stories, let me take the opportunity today to be perfectly clear: I’m not an artist. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

And, despite being married to an artist, I’m not even what you might call an art connoisseur. A glib quip or light-hearted comment are usually the only things I can muster when confronted with any piece of art, whether hers or someone else’s.

I’ve spoken with enough artists to learn that many have significant others who they bounce their creations off of for feedback.

I’ve spoken with enough artists to learn that many have significant others who they bounce their creations off of for feedback. They are much more eager to offer feedback on their artist’s work.

I’m not that. Far from it. 

Do I appreciate the thought, expertise, and effort that goes in? Absolutely. 

And do I appreciate and love her passion for art? Of course.

My thing, if I have a thing, isn’t offering advice in the technical or compositional aspects of art. I’m more of a support-her-art-business type of significant other. 

Want me to help with business strategy? I love it and I’m there. Want me to help with e-marketing? I’m there. Want me to launch a website writing exaggerated stories about my life married to an artist? Too bad, I’m doing it anyway.

So, when my wife tells me she is using flowing strokes to create unity within a glazing effect on her canvas, I simply look up, nod, and continue thumbing my Instagram feed. My eyes may or may not … glaze … over (bless your heart for allowing my dad jokes).

And when she actively requests my presence in her art studio to offer my thoughts, I become uncomfortable. 

Alas, I couldn’t escape this time.

I moved from my perch on the couch slower than Flash Slothmore. At the speed I was moving, I’m sure it was painfully obvious I wasn’t keen on the idea of offering my thoughts.

Finally, I made it downstairs. As I rounded the corner at the bottom of our stairs and slowly walked into her studio, she glanced up, looked at her watch, and appeared less than enthusiastic.

At least, in that moment, we had that in common.

Still looking less-than-enthusiastic, she pointed to the corner.

As my eyes absorbed the sight of what was there, relief overwhelmed my discomfort.

“Oh, thank goodness,” I exclaimed, my lips curling into a beaming smile stretching from ear to ear, just like Flash.

There, in that corner, stood a camera mounted on a tripod aimed at her latest creation capturing time lapse footage for her art business, for her e-marketing.

I’ve never been happier to see a tripod. What a glorious day!

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