This journaling exercise of a post for each day of my holiday is getting tiresome for me so I can only begin to imagine what any readers might think. Oh, you can just close the window and move on. I always wanted my writing to be more like the Little Minx than news links and forced wittiness. Ta. My consolation is that I say I use the blog as a writing exercise anyway. For that Great American Novel that I hope to cough up one day. Looking at the bestseller lists, I'm sure that most novels are coughed up anyway.
The bulk of the day was set aside for painting. A few years ago I decided to be an Abstract Expressionist (because one has to do something); unfortunately, representation kept sneaking in and not very good ones at that. The artistic talent allotment in my family went nearly entirely to my father and my older brother. My brother's reputation preceded me in high school, and the art teachers always seemed to judge anything I did in comparison. The first class I had in college was oil painting. The instructor was a local artist who seemed content for the class to "express" ourselves. The canvas was huge and blank. She gave everyone in the class top marks regardless of talent or work. The day's painting came out well enough for only an afternoon of work.
