SELFIE

SELFIE??

Or not me!

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Let’s face it! Oh my! What a play on words!! But seriously, without playing, let me talk about faces – or rather one face, in particular: mine!

I am, in no way shape or form, an artist! I can’t draw! Whether pencil, charcoal, paints, or crayons, I just don’t have that kind of talent. Yet for some unknown reason, I love to doodle and when I do, every once in a great while, a shape will appear.

Oh, yeah, I can draw a box! Hey, it’s only four like-size lines connected at each end and bent to for a box! But, as I said, they’re straight lines. I can doodle just about anything that can be formed by using straight lines.

I can even draw a circle or an oval.

I guess in one way, I’m not hopeless; yet in another way, please don’t ask me to draw a face, or any item that needs to show details. Just can’t do it!

But let’s get back to faces.

A friend of mine handed me a photo and encouraged me to draw it. “Just copy what you see. You’ll be fine. I know you can do it!”

Well, now didn’t I prove her wrong!

Unfortunately, that never stopped me from doodling.

My mom said I started doodling as soon as I could hold a pencil (or in my case when I was a tot, a crayon.) Dad would be frustrated since, when he awoke early for work, he’d find new scribbles on the walls, kitchen table, chairs, and anything else I could find that wasn’t too tall for my reach. Yes, he complained to my mom, “We really need to do something about her scribbling.”

Mom visited the local five-n-dime store and purchased several large drawing pads. Maybe she was hoping that my scribbles might turn into some kind of art. They didn’t.

One day, my grandmother asked if there were any usual stains on my underwear. “What made you ask that? I make sure she’s wearing a clean, fresh pair each morning.”

My grandmother smiled and replied, “The way she scribbles on everything, I just thought that even her underwear wasn’t safe.”

Mom laughed but my grandmother didn’t. She was totally serious. “I swear, Mary,” my grandmother began, “if the angels came down from heaven and handed Margaret a crayon, she’d try to scribble on their wings.”

Not wanting to hurt her mother’s feelings, my mother never said a word.

To my mother’s surprise, I began drawing eyes. Why? I have no idea. Before you ask, no, I wasn’t good at it. But they appeared on the paper mom bought.

There wasn’t just one eye. I filled the paper with dozens of eyes. With my crayons, I drew eyes of blue, green, brown, yellow, red – any color I had in the box. I used the black crayon for the outline, eyebrows, and eye lashes. I drew tiny eyes, large eyes, and eyes that might fit a giant cyclops! And by the way, I wasn’t even drawing sets of eyes. They were all individuals.

Mom encouraged me to attempt drawing pairs with a nose in the middle.

To this day, I have no idea what I was drawing but I’m sure if scientists saw my “art,” they’d wonder to what species such creatures belonged.

Through the years, my so-called “art” work never improved. Yet, those who know me, for reason, think I know how to draw! “But you take great photos.” “You really ARE an artist. You’re a writer and that makes you an artist.” I remind them that art comes in many forms and not everyone is good at every one of them.

And then there was Kathy. One night, while sitting in a club, she began to badger me. “Aw, come on, Margaret. Just try it. I know you can do it.” She handed me a piece of paper and a pencil. I wanted to say that I could probably draw better with my eyes shut but while I knew better, she would have then insisted that she blindfold me! Yikes!

To humor her, I took the pad and pencil. She took from her wallet a photo of the two of us at a recent party. “Here, this is your model. Just draw you.”

All I can say is that I really tried. However, that drawing and my photo looked nothing alike.

Suddenly, she held up the drawing and pointed to a woman who’d just walked in. “Look,” Kathy said excitedly, “you drew her! See? What you drew and her face is almost identical.”

I asked Kathy when the last time she her eyes had been checked.

“Okay, so I tried,” she said feeling a bit dejected. The woman in the club and I looked nothing alike – in no way, shape, or form. Maybe the only thing we had in common was the fact that we both wore glasses. Yet, Kathy tried. She tried to be a good friend and encourage me. To lighten her mood, I reminded her of a poem I’d written while we were on our lunch break. “Remember,” I asked, “the poem about the hamburger?”

Kathy giggled. “Omg! I almost forgot about that. Forget drawing, just concentrate on writing. Just make sure I get to read everything.”

To this day, while I still can’t draw to save my life, I can write, take photographs, and make greeting cards.

My artistic prowess seems to have taken a “hands” on type of art. I can’t draw and I can’t sing. I can’t hum. (I know that old joke, if you can’t sing because you’ve forgotten the words, just hum. My vocal cords are laughing at that one.)

So then, here I am, off work for the day and trying to catch up on my writing. Let’s see how much I can get done before my next distraction.

(For the record: right before I added the final sentence to my little story, I had THREE distractions that needed immediate attention. And THIS is my day.)