Brook & Bramble Art

I like most of this one. Genuinely. The sky behaves, the sea knows where it’s going, and the building itself mostly holds together. The grass does what grass is supposed to do. The colours are calm. Nothing is shouting.

And then there’s the tower.

It’s not leaning in a charming, characterful way. It’s not dramatically off, like a bold stylistic choice. It’s just… drunk. Slightly wobbly, vaguely apologetic, and absolutely convinced it’s standing up straight despite all evidence to the contrary.

What makes me laugh is that this wasn’t a lack-of-tools problem. No blaming paper. No pointing at brushes. This was entirely on me. I saw it going wrong early on. I clocked the wonky logic. I knew, in real time, that if I stopped, adjusted, and tried again, I could probably fix it.

I did not do that.

Instead, I pressed on with the quiet optimism that things might somehow resolve themselves if I ignored them long enough. They did not. The tower sobered up just enough to remain upright, but not enough to regain its dignity.

Still, I don’t hate it. Which feels important. The rest of the painting carries enough confidence that the mistake reads more like a lapse than a collapse. It’s irritating, yes, but also oddly human. A very clear record of the moment where patience ran out and stubbornness took the wheel.

This one sits in that familiar middle ground: proof that progress is happening, alongside proof that I still occasionally stop too soon. Not because I can’t do better, but because I decide I’ve done enough.

So the tower stays. Slightly tipsy. A reminder that knowing what to fix and actually fixing it are two very different skills — and that sometimes the lesson isn’t about technique at all, but about staying with the problem just a little longer.

Next time, I’ll try to take the keys away before it starts listing to one side.