Dear Bob Ross Inc.,
I have a tiny Bob Ross who lives on my desk.
He is about two inches tall. He holds a paintbrush. His hair is magnificent. His eyes know things. Most of the time, he just sits there, calm and still, like a peaceful wizard made of resin and wisdom.
But on the days when my brain is on fire, when my emails scream, when the coffee betrays me and the world feels like it’s tilting a little too far to the left, I look at Bob. And in my mind, he speaks.
He doesn’t yell. Bob would never yell. No, he whispers in that soft, reassuring voice of his and tells me, “Let’s just take a deep breath. It’s okay to be a happy little tree for a minute. Nothing is broken. Everything can be gently dabbed into something beautiful.”
I’m not sure what kind of enchantment you worked into this figurine, but it is effective. He has become my emotional support painter. My desk-bound therapist. My curly-haired lighthouse in the storm of adult life.
Thank you for continuing to share Bob’s gentle, peculiar magic with the world. The fact that a man could stand in front of a blank canvas and create serenity from smudges is one of the great miracles of modern times. The fact that he still manages to make people like me breathe slower just by existing in miniature form is another.
With strange affection and a heart full of titanium white,
James Gamble