By W. R. Jones
I hesitate to tell you all the story of this painting. The unbelievable injustice perpetrated upon me will, most likely, cause you severe mental anguish. I’m going to suggest that you send me a sympathy check (love offering – please nothing less than $20) before you read on. I’m just afraid this sad tale will cause copious tears which could ruin the check before it gets in the mail.
I paid hard earned saw mill dollars to attend Lisa’s still life workshop sometime ago. Being the eager beaver I am, I showed up early. I was expecting to start right in painting, but no, I had to set up my own scene. Hey, what exactly am I paying for? I asked if there were any rugby shirts, shot shells, and Playboy magazines to create my still life, but was, a little too sharply I thought, told it had to be flowers.
Ok, I’m flexible; I hung a thick cloth cover from my belt to cover my boys so they wouldn’t be traumatized by all this feminine paraphernalia, and set up a table of flowers.
As one would expect from a flower painting class, there were mostly women around me. I tried my best to open up a little friendly conversation. I casually, in my most helpful tone of voice, mentioned to the lady on my right that she should consider leaning into her razor a little more in the morning. The hair on her upper lip was catching the light just right, throwing off a mini halo and making her lip look like Jesus taking a nap. She didn’t take this suggestion quite the way I expected. I was planning on giving her some good shaving tips like doing it in the shower – which softens up the whiskers after you have been in there 45 minutes. It does wrinkle the skin a little but at her age it wouldn’t be noticeable.
She made it abundantly clear, even to a semi concious man like myself, she was not interested in my shaving expertise.
I tried talking to the woman on my left but after only a short few words I had to give her my honest opinion that she should seek a charisma transplant, assuming she could find a suitable donor.
This socialization was not going well. I gave myself a little talking to; no more negative comments, buddy. I approached a woman across the room and told her I REALLY admired her legs. That brought a smile to her face. Now I’m getting somewhere; making a new friend. “Yep”, I say, “I myself have always wanted calves like a 265 lb linebacker.” The look on her face; you would have thought I insulted her.
Lisa comes screaming, “That’s it, out, out, out. Three strikes, you are out.” I never knew she was so knowledgeable about sports. I guess that is why she is always wearing baseball caps. She told me I could paint outside.
I had to paint these through the window. I wasn’t quite tall enough (even though I’m 6’4″) to see so I had to stackup some loose bricks to stand on. Here is a tip for you – when you are standing on a pile of loose bricks don’t step back to look at your painting. This painting looks pretty good hanging here in my hospital room.