A new life at 67.Can a woman start all over again?

Two Vermicelles and a big piece of Apple Strudel were staring at me as I opened the fridge door yesterday on my return from Art Classes.

The house was empty apart from Dominic von Tribo who was miaowing around my feet, and he doesn’t appreciate all the things that I do.

I hadn’t had time for a real lunch not that I was even making that an excuse, I just put the objects of desire on a plate and scoffed the lot.

You don’t have to be very perceptive to realise my painting hadn’t gone well at all.

It might be a sign of improvement because I am actually beginning to blame my teacher. He should have known by now that my great talents couldn’t be guided towards the abstract. Not at this stage anyway. (Am I beginning to sound like an artist?)

I am actually in his watercolour class because I admire the way he paints, wanting to be a sort of Raffaello to his Michaelangelo and what does he dare to do before I am quite that far.He changes his technique.

The Autumn leaves this week are no longer botanically recognisable, form is not important he wanted to see colour.

Cadmium red and yellow ochre, burnt sienna, crimson and sap green all mixed together with a splattering of prussian blue, and called art.
I asked if he found my painting just a tiny bit “restless”

“Not at all ” he said “from a distance.”

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