...something scribbled, something blue.
I have sketchbooks chock full of my random doodlings. They generally sit around collecting dust, but this weekend I decided to put them to work as coloring books for the girls.* Here are some of the results:
Illustrations by moi. Colors by Lulu.
Illustration by moi. Colors by June.
Since the median age of our "art collective" is six, do we qualify us as outsider artists. Will we become a flash-in-the-pan New York sensation with a much-hyped show in Chelsea—the "must-attend" event of the season? Will the New York Times write an enamored article about us? Will the price of our work surge skyward in a grossly inflated bubble? And then burst six months later, selling for cents on the dollar? Will we return to our humble Southern roots and discover that we are, in the end, happier just making our art in peace, far from all that big city hoopla? Will that happen?
* Art projects are an essential tool in my parental keep-the-kids-busy arsenal. They grab the young uns' brains for at least a good forty-five minutes or so. (Time, precious time!) And it doesn't cause that post-staring-at-a-screen-for-a-long-time behavioral hangover that DVDs and other more expedient (but mildly nefarious) techniques often cause. (Not that I'm in any way above using the aforementioned mildly nefarious techniques when necessary.)