I've never considered myself an artist. I like to doodle, make stuff out of play-doh, shoot a few artsy looking pictures, and put paint to canvas on occasion. I mostly play around and I'm never serious about my creations. I have fun, I love what I make and I enjoy displaying my creations in my home.
I'm not happy if I'm not making something. I just refinished a dining room table and I've just set it up and I'm insanely in love with it. It's an ever so slight mint green that matches a hutch I refinished this summer which matches my very first piece of honest to goodness "I'm an adult" furniture purchase of a wine rack.
There's something about that first piece of furniture you buy as an adult. It's a badge of honor. A, "LOOK AT ME, I DIDN'T HAVE TO PUT THIS TOGETHER WITH AN ALLEN WRENCH" status symbol. Since I've now refinished two pieces to match it, it's safe to say the mint green dining room suite is here to stay.
But I'm getting the niggling in the back of the creative part of my mind. You know the feeling. The itchy, buzzy, annoying spark that threatens to engulf you if you don't put it to use. I've got my sights on our bedroom walls. Don't tell my husband, but I'd like to repaint the bedroom a warm taupe-y brown. It's currently an ash grey and I think it's just time I repainted over it. Like everything in Papa B's life when I moved in, I want to erase the poor decorating choices of a single man in his twenties. He joked that he's not sure he recognizes the house anymore. I told him I'm just making it harder for his next wife to come in and not feel my presence and hand on everything.
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