Considering Chocolate

5x7 inches - acrylic on canvas board

This is my plan for a painting of two Hershsey's almond kisses.  I made the mistake of buying a bag of these little treats before Valentines Day, and we are hooked.  Anyway I painted this little value study and my husband told me it was hard for him to see what the it is.  "They're just shapes," was his comment.  I told him,"You're right, Sweetie!"  Tomorrow I'll add the color with oil paint.

I guess I should not show my work to friends or family, especially if I'm in the least ungenerous mood.  I took a couple things to show at my local painting group and found myself annoyed about well-intentioned critical comments.  I understand completely that they felt helpful, but I bristled at all of them.  I either need to learn to stay home when I'm in that sort of mood or find more gracious ways to accept criticism.  One thing I sometimes remember to say when I don't necessarily agree with what someone says is "You might be right." On the other hand, maybe we all need to ask before we offer advice, and see if it's welcome.  Next week maybe I'll take along a little bag of chocolate just to be sure we're all happy with each other.

The Prelude
By Matthew Zapruder

Oh this Diet Coke is really good,
though come to think of it it tastes
like nothing plus the idea of chocolate,
or an acquaintance of chocolate
speaking fondly of certain times
it and chocolate had spoken of nothing,
or nothing remembering a field
in which it once ate the most wondrous
sandwich of ham and rustic chambered cheese
yet still wished for a piece of chocolate
before the lone walk back through
the corn then the darkening forest
to the disappointing village and its super
creepy bed and breakfast. With secret despair
I returned to the city. Something
seemed to be waiting for me.
Maybe the “chosen guide” Wordsworth
wrote he would even were it “nothing
better than a wandering cloud”
have followed which of course to me
and everyone sounds amazing.
All I follow is my own desire,
sometimes to feel, sometimes to be
at least a little more than intermittently
at ease with being loved. I am never
at ease. Not with hours I can read or walk
and look at the brightly colored
houses filled with lives, not with night
when I lie on my back and listen,
not with the hallway, definitely
not with baseball, definitely
not with time. Poor Coleridge, son
of a Vicar and a lake, he could not feel
the energy. No present joy, no cheerful
confidence, just love of friends and the wind
taking his arrow away. Come to the edge
the edge beckoned softly. Take
this cup full of darkness and stay as long
as you want and maybe a little longer.