Before I was married to an artist, I saw the world in simple colors.
Green was green. Whether it was your run-of-the-mill fescue grass you find on suburban Canadian prairie lawns or the coarse baize covering a billiard table, the color was simply green.
Same for blue. Whether it was the crystal-clear sky on a cloudless day or the inimitable, googly-eyed Cookie Monster, the color was simply blue.
Robert Bateman is a Canadian artist. He’s one of the most celebrated wildlife painters.
His paintings start selling for close to $20,000, and it goes up from there.
I suspect he doesn’t remember but I met him once.
This post marks the one-year anniversary for this website. Instead of writing a new story, I thought it would be interesting to reflect back on the last year of Saturday Morning Stories.
I’ve written 50 stories over the past year (I took one week off and this week would have been 52). I’ve enjoyed writing them, but there are certainly stories that stick out more than others in my mind.
So, here is a list of my top five stories from the last year (in alphabetical order) and why I enjoyed the story so much.
If you haven’t read any the stories on this list, I encourage you to do so as a starting point for catching up. And, if you have already read some or all of them, I encourage you to re-read them. I’m sure you’ll discover a new detail you missed the first time.
“How do you spell that?” I asked my artist wife.
Her response was a facepalm followed by a slightly annoyed look.
Minutes earlier, I had drawn her into a conversation about her favorite historical artists. We were sitting at our kitchen table following dinner one spring evening. The sun was setting outside the window at the end of the table.
As it continued to descend, she didn’t seem too keen on my interest, especially since she knows how much I “enjoyed” my university Art History course. Hint: Not. One. Bit.
I still remember the sun shining through the lone window in the cavernous art room of my Grade K-6 school on that day decades ago. It was the day a young me learned a valuable life lesson about art.
Three rows of tables ran the length of room with student-filled chairs lining either side.
I sat at the end of the middle row on the left side on this particular day; a decade before I would meet my now artist wife — who, by the way, makes this art stuff look easy.
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.)