My mom painted this. It's a large painting, and it's hung in our house since I was born. The walls of my childhood home are covered with her paintings. She paints everything; horses, landscape, birds, houses.
There are several problems that come alone with having a talented mother.
1. Somewhere around the age of six, when I was still happily drawing with my crayons, I gazed at the walls, gazed back at the bright pink stick figure on my notebook and said, "Never mind." Seriously. Why try.
2. It made me a dork. Imagine this: you're ten. You're at a sleep over and trying desperately to blend in with your scrunci wearing friends. And as you trod into the kitchen, you notice your friend's mother's Maxfield Parrish calender and make note of it. Her mother's eyes light up and before you know it, you've become immersed in a conversation about "Parrish blue" while your friends roll their eyes and retreat into the den to play Nintendo. Without you. See what I mean? Dork.
3. Varicose veins. I used to think I got them from standing on my feet and waitressing. Now I suspect I started acquiring them from standing around in art museums for hours. And hours. And hours.
4. And lastly, I hate art from Target. Or Bed Bath and Beyond. Call it childhood brainwashing. Don't get me wrong... I don't mind it in other people's homes. But when you've grown up surrounded by original art, it's just too hard to go out and buy a canvas still-life from the haphazard isles of Garden Ridge Pottery. I do make exceptions (as you all know, I'm a sucker for old movie posters or vintage ads), but for the most part I do my best to con Mom into giving me a painting here and there. Hmmm... speaking of conning... this bird painting would look great in my office. Wouldn't it? Mom?