Stopped in an art supply store this afternoon to buy some more pastels and some paper. Trying to explain my level of proficiency (and establish a reasonable price range for appropriate paper), I fetched Sunday's drawing from the car. The clerk seemed to understand and we happily skittered off to the paper racks, leaving the drawing on the counter. When we returned, a lovely lady asked me if the piece was mine. When I said yes, she said, "I knew it. You look like the person who did that."
When I asked what she meant, she said the piece was detailed, intricate, controlled and precise; she mentioned that the way I was dressed and my appearance matched it.
All my life people have told me I'm sweet. Puke! I hate being called sweet. Now I'm experimenting with color and line, stepping waaaay out of my comfort zone, and a complete stranger tells me my attempt is "detailed and precise." I'm sure she meant no harm—didn't intend to be unkind—but, damn, it was like being told I'm sweet.
If you've spent your life being a "good girl," how do you break that mold? I don't want to be sweet, I want to be exotic and interesting—a little dangerous even. Not aiming for irresponsible here, just not "controlled and precise."
It would be great to make 07 my "year of living dangerously." Not risky, really. Just on the far side of sweet. Got to figure out where to start. Stay tuned.