If I lived in London, I would be an artist. I would spend all my time trying to perfect the looks of people's faces in pencil, ink, charcoal - maybe I'd try oils again, but I would definitely be an artist. All the time that I wasn't drawing, I would spend taking my daughter to galleries and museums, sketch book in hand, tracing paper and pencils. I would teach her how to rub the pencil lightly over the tracing paper to capture the unique beauty of friezes and frescoes, floor tiles and Venetian radiator grilles. I would show her the beauty of art in the simple world around us. We would pick flowers and rub their petals into our sketch books to create natural colors. We would steal daffodils for the sunshine, purple pansies to create the seas, pink tulips for our sunsets. We would have spent more time enjoying places and less time worrying about getting there.
And if I discovered that I couldn't paint or draw after all, I would be a writer, for there is no greater beauty in the English language than in England. It isn't the accents, which "of couse ah chahming" but the rich flavor of the words, the rhythmic song of the sentences. Somehow it seems there are so many more words to choose here.
I would keep a journal, with blank, unlined pages, so that when the beauty of life came before me I could capture it, in drawings, sketches and words. It would be a small book, easy enough to fit into my purse or pocket and I would write in it only with a fountain pen. When seated on the underground train or waiting for the curtain to rise or just enjoying coffee in the square, I could record those pictures or words when they are before me. Instead of having to try to recreate the inspiration later. Or worse, losing it forever.
And if I discovered that I couldn't paint or draw after all, I would be a writer, for there is no greater beauty in the English language than in England. It isn't the accents, which "of couse ah chahming" but the rich flavor of the words, the rhythmic song of the sentences. Somehow it seems there are so many more words to choose here.
I would keep a journal, with blank, unlined pages, so that when the beauty of life came before me I could capture it, in drawings, sketches and words. It would be a small book, easy enough to fit into my purse or pocket and I would write in it only with a fountain pen. When seated on the underground train or waiting for the curtain to rise or just enjoying coffee in the square, I could record those pictures or words when they are before me. Instead of having to try to recreate the inspiration later. Or worse, losing it forever.
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