Not A Painter

Artemisia Gentileschi, Self-Portrait. Awhile back someone asked me what initially drew me to photography. I'm terrible at answering questions that demand real answers and not some idiotic or glib response. In fact, I would say that I provide an entirely unreliable narrative to almost everything about my life.
But, and as far as I can reckon this is the truth about why I am a photographer, it's because I cannot paint. I can't draw at all.
I was exposed to drawing and painting at a young age because my mother is an artist. She would sketch endlessly on pads, often of us kids. She tried to nurture in each of us anything even remotely artistic.
Despite her efforts, my hand remained clumsy. I could see in my mind what I wanted to create, achieve, but I could not get it from my head to the paper. The disconnect proved simply too vast between conception and execution. Eventually I quit and picked up my trusty secondhand kodak. Then when something caught my eye, my brain could snatch it before my hand could somehow ruin it. Works for me.
I started thinking of all this while staring at this self portrait of Gentileschi. I like the perspective of it, not just the angle but the action. Plus I couldn't help but notice that she gave herself absolutely no cleavage with that plunging neckline.