The wealth of artists

Is not in their paintings' value, nor their notoriety.

I inherited my grandmother's art supplies and her dining room table. A grand irony, as I used to paint at my dining room table, which was formica with chrome legs and didn't suffer a little paint. The new dining room table is striated wood, perfectly crafted with a beautiful gear mechanism for expanding to add table leaves. It's something I fear to eat from, let alone paint upon.

So, with a wealth of supplies: oil paints and oil brushes, three handfuls of watercolor brushes and two fresh, still-wrapped canvases, I find myself perplexed at where to put this wealth.

A friend once said "Djavla fan, vad ska jag gora med all dom har grejorna?" (Which, when translated from the Swedish, means "What am I going to do with all this stuff?" and I'm glad to make use of it now because I couldn't quite determine the context then.)

For now, there are paintbrushes growing from bud vases and Ball jars in my living room. There's a half-finished portrait the new-to-me easel.

And a dining room table for eating and imagining conversations we never had.