I am my parent’s daughter, at least in all that is good about me*. But the most indulgent extravagant talent, that has most miserly slipped into my genes, is my mother’s talent for art!
When my brain is partly switched off, involuntarily, somehow the pictures in my head seem to appear on the paper in long broad strokes of the pen, where one stroke means very little by itself, but only adds to the bigger picture. This is a very very poor man’s version of my mum’s style of art.
I remember nearly dying of stress, when as a little girl, I saw her draw – nothing she was doing was making sense, and it was only adding to the mess on the page – till she finished it, and I realised** that this wasn’t something you could learn – somehow it was a communication of the hand and the eye, with the brain switching off in the middle.
*Most of the times when I find there is this really good habit in me, that I seem to just have got naturally – I can trace it down to something my parents have done or said. Between the two of them, my parents are perfect… (I do suspect that is true of most parents, that between the two (or three or four) of them, they would be perfect…) My imperfections, I seem to have got them all by myself... no, really!
** maybe erroneously