Tonight I insist on quashing this inner critic and cut squares at random from magazine with Bean on my lap. At my floor, a widening circumference of scraps. I am a messy artist. I wrap my hand over Beanâ€™s smaller one and show him how to brush gel medium over the scraps Iâ€™ve assembled.
Itâ€™s not much, not pen and ink or watercolors or even really any work I generated myself. (See, thereâ€™s the voice. Where does it come from?) And yet I force myself to go with it tonight, making a mosaic of color. Pictures of spaces, dishes, fabric, dreams. For an instant I imagine there: in the restaurant with the red-backed chairs, or the windowed room with the pale green blown glass baubles hanging from the ceiling.
I try to let it be enough for a Tuesday, when my temples ache and the cat vomited on the kitchen table and the dishes are still in the sink.