Think it, feel it, paint it

Dearest,

Was there ever a time  you sat beside a scenic that beckoned you a canvas?

a palette of english colors  from the countryside en summer et a cup of tea so warm and creamy that you begin  to paint with mére plaisir.
Like the famed Mrs potter, in her maison de campagne. Except she was rather lucky, she had a rabbit to accompany her weary days. One that’s often filled with perhaps self blather, ink stains, tea, pots of such and an imaginative room of ducks, a fox, a monkey, not, a few chickens et an envious, terribly so fox. With a vest. An angry face with whiskers that needed to be captured. Or groomed.
By Nikon perhaps. Exotic really.
I sit here on the inside, stripping  my walls of framed Botticelli.  I ponder the birth of Venus, and wonder, how could he of ever envisioned such an evenly perfect vision of a being?

I am yet again redoing my abode. My husband often gets lost on the walls of our home, it’s filled with arts. Colors et beaux portraits. I am thinking my walls needed a splatter of color from perhaps a Gauguin, or Manet or even Renoir.
being a writer you are more prone to boredom. Except I merely read, I watch, listen and absorb. It’s a flourish of doltishness really.
so will you vow you’ll paint?

thinking of you at tea,

RS