We would love something colorful, whimsical and nature inspired! See attached photos.
Mae
I can’t remember where my sketch book was, so I grab my landlord’s move-in papers and begin sketching some designs on the back. What’s in my head?
Tea. When was the last time I had tea?
This morning.
When was the last time I saw a teapot?
I have an electric kettle, but I also have an inkling they aren’t looking for something so modern.
The little red kettle on the chef’s jacket.
That man again. That was the last time I saw a kettle.
I lightly draw a kettle with a big billow of steam. I sketch a branch with blooming cherry blossoms through the handle. A finch on the upper branch. No, maybe a dove. Or an albatross.
I erase the billow of steam and add a flowing stream of water into a porcelain cup adorned with cherry blossoms and hibiscus flowers. There.
I hate it.
I want to do something whimsical but comforting. Somewhere you could imagine yourself going to and drinking a nice cup of tea. Somewhere you could escape to. Where you could go whenever you felt lonely, or strange, or when you wanted to talk to an old friend. I rub my temples. The very place I want to be in.
I crumple the paper, and take a fresh sheet, and let my wrist do the work.
Thin pine trees in the background. A large, shimmering lake in the middle ground. A large cherry blossom tree in theforeground, to the left. A grassy clearing to the right, little wildflowers swaying in an imaginary breeze.
A steaming red kettle with matching teacups on a red-checkered picnic blanket. A rattan woven picnic basket filled with treats. Orange frosted scones and berry custard tarts.
A wide-brimmed sun hat. Finches dancing around the cattails in the lake. A man and a woman holding hands on the shore of the lake.
I smile to myself.It looks like heaven compared to now.
If this idea is rejected, I might paint it myself. It would make a fine first painting in this new home of mine.
I snap a quick photo and open my email.
Mae,
What do you think of something like this, in this style? That being said, these are
all done with acrylic paint. I think acrylic paint would be better suited to your needs. This might be easier to discuss over the phone, so give me a call!
Riley
I attach photos of my previous murals. One of them is on the side of a building for a recreation center in Brooklyn, one of a Tuscan Villa inside a mom-and-pop Italian restaurant in Queens, one on the roadbed of an outdoor dining structure in New Jersey. I also attach some photos of my paintings—a waterfall in Upstate New York, an elderly couple napping on a bench in Central Park, and finally, one of Lily lying in the sunshine. I click sendbefore I lose my nerve.
I’m not confident I can do an oil painting that large in six weeks. The drying time of oil paint certainly proves to be arisky factor. I don’t think they’ll find anyone willing to do an oil painting of that scale, in that time frame. Surely, if they like my sketch, I can convince them to do acrylic paint in order to stay under budget and in the time frame.
Now, I wait.
Resigning myself to not check my email until after therapy at 2:00, lest I obsessively check all morning, I decide to unpack. I place my phone on the countertop, and look for Lily, who is nestled in her eternal favorite spot—the corner of the couch arm. I cup her squashed face in my hands and give her a fat kiss on her noggin. She barely lifts her head as she lightly snorts in response.
I walk to a stack of Rubbermaid bins and lift the lid off one. Kitchenware. I begin unpacking. I thought I would dread it more, but it becomes therapeutic to find a new home for things. Spatulas and spoons and ice cream scoops in this drawer, silverware and scissors in that drawer. Pots and pans on the stovetop and in the oven. My cabinet space is limited. I stock my shelves with the odds and ends I didn’t throw out: boxes of pasta, bags of rice, instant oatmeal and dry cereal.
I empty bin after bin, but even after an hour of unloading books and towels and trash bags, it still feels like I have a thousand more things to unpack. I sit on the floor, Lily skittering across the hardwood floor to climb into my lap. I could be unpacking all day. I didn’t know I had this much stuff, as I’d hired movers to haul it all. When you’re one person with no one but a dog, you surround yourself with more material objects to fill the void of warmth. Surely a new box of cereal could replace the warmth of a hug.
