“You can do this,” she said as he looked at the page, the paints and inside his nerves jangled in fearsome expectation of making a complete fool of himself.
“But I have no artistic ability. I have trouble colouring in between the lines, let alone making something from scratch. It will look infantile.”
“Everyone has artistic ability; we just manifest it in different ways. Not everyone can be Picasso. And you have to start somewhere. Consider it another means of expression.”
It was her reassuring smile that gave him the most worry. She’d see soon enough the limit of his skill if you’d call a few splodges on the page the full extent of his ability.
He took up the tube of blue, blue he thought was neutral enough to maybe hide his deficiencies. He squeezed out a blob and with his brush spread it over the page in much the same way, as he would butter his toast.
“I see,” she said, “keep on trying, and don’t think of the paint as something you might eat.”