For the few times that it’s magic

Do you want to see a really bad painting of a cat?

It would really help me out if you did. I have a lot of them (bad paintings, that is, not paintings of cats) and I’m sort of running out of things to show you.

They say that magic is just science that we don’t understand yet. That’s an idea that always made me feel safe. Not as a science teacher, but as an artist. If it were truly possible to understand magic, then I could sit down at a table and not feel the need to wave my brush around like a magic wand.

Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t. It’s like magic. I don’t have any way to quantify it. I’m not exactly a genius at painting, but when I do make something that I like, I never understand why I like it, and I’m left to try again and again, and hope for magic.

By the way, here’s the painting:

I’d rather not hear anyone commenting that it’s not that bad, or that they like it. I know for myself, when I miss the mark I wanted to hit so badly. It’s a silly thing to get upset about. That I also know. It just seems that sometimes when I sit down to make something, I am starting from the very beginning.

But it’s magic, and I don’t understand it. I could wallpaper a house with all the really bad art I’ve made. I’m 36 years old. Sometimes I see people who are doing more than me, and are 10-15 years younger, and I think… am I just wasting my time? Would I be happier without this hobby, in which I constantly disappoint myself? Just give up hope that it will get better?

But then… without hope…

Maybe all the frustration and bad art are worth it, at the end of the day. For the few times that it’s magic. I get to believe in something, I get to be someone who makes magic. If only 1 in 10 times.

Maybe one in 20.