As I packed my small leather purse, now used for my outdoor painting adventures, which was previously a makeup bag, I paused to contemplate. I am aware that my face reveals much about me; you can often discern my thoughts. At that moment, the shape of my pupils probably resembled the rectangular wells of my watercolor palette. It wasn’t a big deal, just a quick trip, and who knew if I would even have time to paint?
As I reminded myself of this, my brain grew even more stiff as my eyes scanned over three notebook options and three watercolor sets. Choosing a brush was simple; I opt for ones with integrated wells (I'll showcase them in one of the upcoming newsletters). I only had to decide between a chubby one or a thin one. The thin one seemed like the better choice—it's easier to create a thick line from a thin one than vice versa, after all.
I grabbed a lilac, small Moleskine ruled notebook and my oldest watercolor set, the one I've completed a couple of books with. A book about painting outdoors came to mind - I acquired it just before the onset of Covid, during times when painting outdoors seemed like a bit of a stretch. It's a fantastic and inspiring read, brimming with ideas: 'Make Art Where You Are' by Courtney Cerruti.
Mapping memories is a very serious thing for me as you can see. Now I laugh at myself but every drawing still starts with choosing the right materials and let me tell you, perfectionism might kill ideas. Pick whatever is closest to you.
To welcome spring in style, the ladies of Cavewoman Wines and I have organized a double workshop. In this unique event, you'll learn the basics of watercolor painting while delving into the world of wine—its colors, types, and the proper way to taste it.
There are still a few spots available, so book yours here and join us if you're in Paris. All materials, wine, and snacks are, of course, included.
Every time I return to Novi Sad, my hometown, I uncover something sentimental that inevitably finds its place on the map of my life.
During my last visit, it was a manuscript penned by my great-grandfather in beautiful calligraphy—a sort of diary detailing his quest to alleviate migraines; a battle of my life. It seemed he had meticulously transcribed an ancient recipe book, its contents likely obsolete even in his time. This was found between two sets of dates in which he explained his trips to Budapest and other smaller Hungarian thermal bath towns.
This time I found two more items that further justify, and I daresay, prove that my light hoarding ways are genetic and that the fight to cure them is lost from the outset.
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