Lessons in destruction

A wet, black nose peeks out of the widening crack as I open the front door. I give Skye a scratch behind the ears before propping my yoga mat against the wall and heading for the couch. "Sube," I call, patting the textured beige throw next to me. Skye jumps onto the couch, ready for our usual post-return cuddle.

I lean over to kiss her on the head and notice a piece of coloured paper on the rug, followed by another, and another. The edges of the paper are ripped as if someone has been making a collage. There's a scrap of pink castle beside a torn-off corner with a turquoise sky.

Maybe Skye's ripped up one of the extra prints I had done this morning, I think somewhat hopefully. But as I pick up the sky, I can tell I'm holding the thick, cotton paper I spent the weekend painting the Alcazaba on. And part of the castle is smudged, as if an industrious tongue has tried to scrape flavour off the page.

I look around the room at all the other paper that was within easier reach that she's chosen not to touch: the copy of Wuthering Heights I've just started reading for my Gothic literature course, a birthday card that's belatedly arrived from Australia; a block of cellulose watercolour paper; even the extra prints of this exact painting on a new paper I wanted to test out.

I am good at thinking about all of the things that could possibility go wrong, but I have been blithely scattering watercolour paintings around the house for the past 18 months because this is the first time Skye's ever shown interest in a painting.

The only other time she's been curious about paper, apart from the occasional lick of a book, was a few months ago when I left two polvorones on the coffee table. She was chuffed that she'd managed to rip the paper off to devour the sweet almond biscuits hidden inside.

A few years ago this destruction of a piece of art I'd worked hard on and was proud of would have ruined my evening. But I look into the warm brown eyes of my happy dog, my mood hanging in the balance, and then I giggle in disbelief. Skye wags in response and I let myself laugh truly.

By this point she's chewing on her pink plastic stick covered in glitter, which crinkles like cellophane every time she bites down. It makes any lingering tension feel even sillier, and what would once have been stressful turns into a moment of connection.

I tell Skye we'll be implementing a new household rule: no watercolour paintings are to be left at dog height. They're now in the same category as medication, chocolate, and the peace lily she once took a nibble of that led her to lick every inch of our floor and a hole in the chalky wall.

Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful that I packed the prints of this painting into their dark-green envelopes a few hours ago. The original painting no longer exists, but at the end of the week its printed clones will be travelling to their new homes all over the world, adding a touch of pink and green magic to a fridge, or a wall, or someone's birthday celebration.

And I enjoyed making this painting. I got to think about the wonderful time I had on my last visit to the Alcazaba, and the joy of bringing a favourite view to life for a group of strangers. I added the final details during a virtual painting session with my aunt in Australia. If the process is the point, rather than having a finished piece, I haven't really lost anything at all.

Sketches from Granada celebrates every-day moments of connection with strangers, friends and ourselves. I know how easy it is not to be present in your own life, and I hope these sketches inspire you to seek out those moments that are worth savouring. 

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