Art is a mess. Its a literal mess.
When you say art, I do not imagine Vincent Van Gogh with a brush in hand, moving swiftly and gracefully, painting The Starry Night.
I see myself. As an 8 year old girl, sitting cross legged on the floor, a huge chart paper in front of me, markers, colour pencils and all sorts of nick knacks surrounding me, while I am in my own world, busy sketching Cinderella.
And that also from a sticker. I only want to paint Cinderella and could not find the perfect pose of her. So I end up sketching her from a three inch sticker.
The eyes and the hands. They are the hardest to draw. I have to erase and than try again. After 20 tries, I like it a little. But painting is still left. Out comes the water paints, brushes and a glass of water.
And the mess starts creating itself.
First the water spills. Always the spill first. The brushes never go in the palette, instead on the floor creating a scenery of their own.
By the time that 8 year old girl is finished with her Cinderella, she wipes her hands on her jeans, gets up, spilling more water, steps back and takes a look at her creativity. Fold upon folds of the frock painted sky blue, her eyes a brilliant gleaming black, a Yellow Daisy in her White gloved hands and that sparkling ribbon on her neck.
One eye is bigger than the other, nose is crooked and her arms look chubbier. The dress is more blue from the middle. And worst of all, she is out of space on the huge chart paper, so now Cinderella is without her Magical Glass Slippers.
But its art. Its perfect.