Hands. What stories they tell. My dad’s hands were so sweet to me. They weren’t particularly attractive in the traditional sense, but I loved them. I remember that his nails began to get ridges—much like my Grandpa’s—as he got older. I have ridges now. I found online that it might be a vitamin deficiency. It just feels like old age. I begin to look like my parents and grandparents.
But, I digress. Painting nails is the subject. Or hands. Or painting. I choose painting.
I love to paint. I often look at my facebook photos in the album “Some of my art” and yearn for the studio I had at Otterbein for a few short months. How I loved to go there and paint. The thrill of creating with my hands, colors and some implement to transfer the paint…sometimes my hands! It’s hard to describe. Of course, others will ask why I don’t paint all the time—or even more often—if I love it so much. This is also hard to describe. There is a hesitance and vulnerability involved. When you mash that into the problematic issues like where to paint, money for canvasses, when to paint—the painting sits aside. But, oh the joy when I do…
