I finger-paint. I’m in my 40’s, and I finger-paint. I admit it. I’m getting in touch with my inner 5 year old – but I’m skipping the tantrum part. In fact, by finger-painting, I’m doing my best to avoid a tantrum. So far, it is working.
I’m not a great artist. I admire people who can paint or draw better than reality. Right now I’m just learning how to get the paint somewhere near where I intended. That is a good start. I’m trying to be patient with myself. I’m trying to just enjoy the process.
I’ve figured out how to save money on canvasses. I go to Goodwill and buy a large canvas that has some indifferent art on it. Instead of paying $50, I pay $4. Then I don’t feel bad about smearing paint on top of it. It frees me to have fun.
I used to paint on the interior walls of the house I live in now, but I’ve run out of space to work. It is a small house. Painting on my walls with my fingers gives me that delicious feeling of going against my parent’s rules. They used to get so upset when I’d draw on my bedroom walls in my old home. Instead of providing me with paper or canvas, they just yelled at me. That was my normal.
I was told not to, but for no good reason. It wouldn’t have hurt anything for me to draw on the walls of my room. They could have painted over it when it was time to sell. Come to think of it, it wouldn’t have inconvenienced them at all because I’m the one who had to sell that house. But no, the walls were pristine. Well, except for thirty years of cigarette smoke that stained everything yellow. My doodles were far safer.
I wasn’t given another outlet for my creativity. I wasn’t given a choice. I wasn’t asked. My thoughts and feelings didn’t matter. As for now, I’m glad to be painting again. I’m glad that their influence didn’t extend past the grave.