The beauty in art

My granddaughter thinks I’m an artist.

I painted flowers on her bedroom wall and I’ve dabbled in watercolor.

It’s fun and it’s relaxing. Yes, I can splash some colors on a canvas. Once in awhile, I’ll even throw a frame around something and nail it up on some unsuspecting victim’s wall. But an artist I’m not.

So here’s yet another unanticipated yet very cool benefit of being a grandparent: As far this 5-year-old is concerned I’m Monet. Or Renoir. Or Monoir. Take your pick.

It’s fun to be able to impress someone with your artistic talent, even if your fan base also loves goldfish crackers and SpongeBob.

The best part? We draw, sketch and paint together. We use our imaginations and make mountains, birds and trees come alive. Sometimes we do that with washable Crayola crayons. And sometimes the birds don’t really look like birds and the trees don’t really look like trees. (My birds and trees, not hers. Hers are spectacular.)

What are we actually creating? A color collage of time together and a palette full of lasting memories. And great big rainbows of love.

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