I can't paint my way out of a paper bag or a tardis, but that is quite all right. The brushes in their jug rival any summer bouquet I can think up, and all the colors in their dear little pots, tubs and tubes are hollering for attention.
Primary colors in late February are fine and nourishing things - they make one feel like dancing, kicking up her heels and throwing paint all over the late winter canvas of her life. I am about to run away without setting foot beyond the little blue house in the village and into the deep snow beyond.
Mixed on my palette, the vibrant reds, blues and yellows are sublime, and even the exuberantly spattered floor is arty stuff, probably more so than what I will be smearing on paper, canvas and all over myself this morning. What a great splendid sticky "hallelujah" sort of mess I am about to make - it is just the right thing for a cold, gray day.