I have always been a very good girl. I have never used any substances stronger than caffeine and alcohol (unless you count the Percodan from my c-section), and I never particularly want to. But this morning, while scanning PBS for something to half-watch while exercising, I stumbled upon Bob Ross and realized that if I'd ever smoked pot, I would have watched The Joy of Painting while doing it.
The instant that afro-bedecked face hits the screen, something in my mind shuts down. I become slightly numb, lulled by his gentle, almost whispering voice into a mesmerized state. I watch slack-jawed as he dabs the titanium white mixed with yellow ochre and sap green to the shapeless shadows on his canvass, magically creating either "happy little" or "big old" trees out of thin air. It's amazing, the flick of the wrist that creates relections, the slash of the knife that creates purple mountains. And the magic roll of paint on the edge of the knife that can "bounce along" and create rocks where before there was just an amorphous blob of brown.
So what if all his paintings are of the same mountains and lakes and glens and would seem generically impressionist even at a Motel 6? I'd forgive Bob anything for that happy, fuzzy feeling in my brain for that half an hour.
"We don't make mistakes here, we just have happy accidents. We want happy, happy paintings. If you want sad things, watch the news. Everything is possible here. This is your little universe." -- Bob Ross
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Welcome to my odditorium, a collection of curiosities made up of snippets about my life and occasional machinations on deeper subjects.
2 comments:
You too? Watching that show is like meditation. I get the same impression from his happy little trees.
I dunno, I think Bob Ross is probably guilty of inspiring lord-knows-how-many stoners to make terrible, terrible art instead of just sitting around talking rubbish as they are meant to do.
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