I am unable to breathe life into a landscape painting.
Lord knows I've tried. But without adding an animal, some sort of whimsical creature, or basically anything with a heartbeat, no painting of mine has much chance of surviving my keen sense of reducing magnanimous vistas onto a 6 by 6 inch board. No matter how beautiful the view or majestic the mountain, I kill it. I kill it dead.
What was I thinking? Why did I travel 3,580 miles across oceans, over mountains, through several thousand stressful situations amidst a constant drizzle and 50-some-odd old men dressed like Santa Claus to try to paint "En Plein Air" when I have a perfectly good spare bedroom/studio at home with internet, a substantial Monty Python library, and plenty of Cheetos?
Truly, I was meant for a higher calling than picking bugs out of oil paintings while chasing the sun in the rain with the wind at my back, wearing a rucksack befitting a boot camp grunt.
If you need me, I'll be in the spare bedroom with my bag of Cheetos making magic happen.