Take an art class - Linda Shearer, Idaho Falls, ID
November 22, 2009
I faced the still life. Random pieces of plastic fruit and glass bottles stared back at me. I breathed in and scooped some paint onto my brush. Because it was the last day, I refused to worry about anything. Today, I was going to have fun.
I started with the apple. 
The red on my palette was as cherry as a jolly rancher, so I deepened it with the chromatic black I had created with blue and brown. I applied this as the main color, then layered in oranges, and yellows, even a touch of lavender where the light hit the strongest. Crazily enough, I was pretty successful. Steve came over to inspect my work. Although I'm sure he disapproved that I was ignoring the other shapes, he didn't let on. Instead, he complimented some of the shading, and I restrained my usual self-criticism.
The red on my palette was as cherry as a jolly rancher, so I deepened it with the chromatic black I had created with blue and brown. I applied this as the main color, then layered in oranges, and yellows, even a touch of lavender where the light hit the strongest. Crazily enough, I was pretty successful. Steve came over to inspect my work. Although I'm sure he disapproved that I was ignoring the other shapes, he didn't let on. Instead, he complimented some of the shading, and I restrained my usual self-criticism.
When I was satisfied with the apple, I moved onto the pear. This time I had fun trying on three or four shades of green. It seemed that a lot of the pressure I had put on myself was gone, so I could experiment. And not only did I experiment on the palette, but on the canvas as well. When I applied the wrong color, I just wiped the brush and tried again. This little action may not seem like much, but for me, it was truly a breakthrough! I no longer felt the need to judge myself or achieve results the same way as everyone else. I was figuring it out my way and loving it.
As always, the time passed by like nothing at all. In the last couple minutes of class I tacked a stem onto each, completing my fruit duo. They weren't much to look at, but they were mine, and more importantly, I had fun doing them. For the last time, each of us recycled what was left of our paint and returned our easels to the corner of the room. Because this was the last class, we didn't have the option of leaving the paintings on the drying rack. As I rocked my painting under the hand dryer, I reflected on the last five weeks; the Southpark recaps and the sports talk, the sighs of frustration and the tiny victories. It had been a bumpy ride, but surprisingly I wasn't discouraged.
Who knows, I might just show up at Lill Street again someday soon.
Life Lesson:
1. Be more afraid of the chances not taken.
On our first day of class, Steve had warned that our biggest hurdle would be the critic in our own minds. He wasn't kidding. If we let it, that critic can prevent us from becoming who we could be. I don't want to wake up one day, an old woman wondering what I've missed out on because of self-doubt and fear. If anything is going to hold me back, it shouldn't be myself.
2. You don't always have to know the outcome.
After class, Steve and I talked about figuring out your process, and allowing that process to change even when you finally have it figured out. I've discovered that I really like to have things figured out. These life lessons at the end of each entry is evidence of this. It's almost as if I need to have learned something, or the class isn't worth it. But more and more, it seems that you have to just let go and see where life takes you, and if you don't end up where you thought you would, that's okay. Even now, as I'm writing this blog, I feel the need to formulate the thought completely and cohesively before................typing. Sometimes I just have to throw words out on the page and let the point of the piece reveal itself as I go.
I'd be lying if I said I'm not a little relieved that it's over. I have a hard time participating in things that I'm not naturally good at. However, I think that uncomfortable state is important in our progress as human beings. We can either turn and run, or grit our teeth and push through the conflict. There were a couple times that I just wanted to give up today, but I pushed through and was able to enjoy some of the fruits, pun intended, of my labor.
So, this blog entry, I am grateful for that little voice inside that fights to be heard even when my fears try to drown it out. Hopefully one day, it will be the stronger voice.
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November 15, 2009
It occurred to me as I nibbled on a blueberry scone, still warm from the cafe downstairs, that I'm not very good at this.
I was laying down the foundation for one of the glass bottles and thinking how unlike glass it appeared. Normally this realization would cause me stress. Today, however, I calmly bobbed my head to Wilco, and scooped some green onto my brush.
Everybody else seemed to be very good at this. I glanced about the room, taking in the variety of style and color. I no longer remembered any of their names. Instead, I knew them by their professions: The nurse, the girl in advertising, the teacher, etc.
The nurse was quite talented. One moment she'd be working an outline, and the next she was transforming each shape into a living object. Of course, somehow we always ended up by each other. This constant reminder of my own inadequacy was always a boost. But even her natural and steady pace barely affected my mood. I think I was finally accepting that I had my own pace and set of struggles to work through.
Well, my "salad" was now three blue bowls stacked on top of each other. They were metallic, so the light swirled and danced around the edges
in a frosty way. I thought it a shame that I most likely wouldn't have the time to figure out how to achieve that speckled quality because everything I did took so much time, and three hours just wasn't enough.
And that's what I've come to accept. It takes time to uncover your own way of doing things. It takes time to understand the paint. It takes time to transfer what you are seeing to the canvas. It even takes time to figure out which brushes you feel comfortable using.
And that's okay.
Life Lesson:
1. You are on your own schedule.
It's okay if it takes some time to figure things out. It's also okay if sometimes you never figure it out; at least you tried and know where you stand. How many years have I thought that I would be naturally good at painting, but never tried? Well, now I know that it's a lot more difficult than I thought. And that gives me greater appreciation for those whose paintings take my breath away.
2. "Failure is just the opportunity to begin again more intelligently." - Henry Ford.
Each class teaches me something new. Even though I may not recognize it, I am faster and smarter each time I go to the canvas.
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November 8, 2009
Have I mentioned that I medicate with food?
Here I sit in the First Slice Cafe, stuffing my inadequacy with a flourless, peanut butter cookie. A part of me doesn't even want to write. Today we explored the dead palette, and that's just what I produced: lifeless art.
The class started off well enough. Steve chose Radiohead as our musical inspiration. As a fan, I was delighted with this companionship however I realized that often my ears were anticipating my favorite lyrics instead of listening to the instructions.
I loaded my palette with warm colors like burnt sienna, umber, yellow ochre, and the usual black and white, and attempted to find the view I wanted. Once again, I tried to get the set-up perfect, flipping back and forth between the canvas and my viewfinder, and failing to actually make a stroke. I was perfectly aware that this kind of obsessing was what held me back the last class, so I made a conscious effort to restrain myself. I failed. Instead, I labored over every table dimension, and every object's proportions.
The first shape, a clay flower pot gave me a lot of trouble. There was something about the angle that I didn't like, and instead of moving on to another object and coming back later, I continued to punish my painting for another twenty minutes. No matter what I did, I couldn't seem to make it right. The angle of the pot put the table at the wrong angle, which, of course, threw off the shadows and therefore the placement of the other objects!
In frustration I mentally turned on Thom Yorke's mournfully sweet crooning. It was the song, "How to Disappear Completely"'s fault that I couldn't concentrate!
I took a step back. I was lashing out at one of my favorite bands. Clearly I needed a break. Steve came and peered over my shoulder. He suggested I stop working the part that was giving me trouble and move on to another shape. Even though I could care less about any of the shapes by that point, I took his advice.
Surprisingly, when I let go and moved onto the rest of the shapes, the choke-hold I had on my creativity released. I actually enjoyed creating the bottles and what little time I had to shade them in.
As I sit here now, I realize that the pressure I feel to have a complete picture at the end of the session, or to at least be at the same point as everyone else, is taking all of the joy out of it.
My expectations are hindering my ability to explore and take risks.
I judge myself before I even try.
Life Lesson:
1. Get something on paper!
I spend too much time with the set-up that I have very little time to see what I'm capable of. I get so caught up in the details that I do nothing at all. Life's too short for me to go through the motions of living while I'm trying to get a handle on things that will never be handled. I need to look the entire picture, discern what needs to take place next, and then layer in each step bit by bit.
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November 1, 2009
Steve set up our first still life with random white and grey objects.
We were using the scale that we had explored the lesson before. I filled my palette with black and white and began mixing the gray I would use for the backdrop. There is something very cool about mixing paint, a sort of instant fulfillment, as the colors absorb each other and turn into something new. Appreciatively, I glided the brush over the canvas; up and down, side to side, trying to make it as streak-free as possible. This part was soothing, easy. The hard part would be the filling it with objects.
About that...How exactly do you fill the canvas with objects? If I was going to attempt to recreate the scene before me, I would need some sort of measuring system.
If the rest of the classes teach me nothing else, this next little discovery is worth it.
Steve showed us a simple way to gauge the size of each object. Holding paintbrush vertically, arm fully extended, mark the height of the smallest object (the Styrofoam ball) on the stick with your thumb. Once you've established the size of that object, you can create the dimension of the other objects in proportion to the first. For example, the tall bottle was about 3 1/2 Styrofoam balls. As I was measuring the distance from the ball to the bottle (about 1 1/4 balls), it suddenly occurred to me why I've seen so many artists hold out their paintbrush and squint with one eye.
After lightly outlining the height and width of each object, and their relation to each other, it was time to translate what I saw onto the canvas. Looking through my view finder, I saw 2 jars, a ball, and a bottle. Shyly I attempted one of the jars. After about twenty minutes, I took a step back. It looked like a jar! ...If a jar looks like a gray blob, that is. I furrowed my brow. This was more difficult than I thought. Uninspired, I moved on to the bottle. After a few strokes, I could feel myself getting overwhelmed. I looked around me for some sort of comfort. That was a mistake. I was clearly far behind everyone else.
I brushed aside my envy, and tried to focus.
Jason had said we needed to break things down into larger shapes, then layer in the detail.
Exhaling loudly, I turned to face the bottle once again. i broke down the bottle into 2 rectangles and a triangle.
And I tried to just focus on that. Instead of being overwhelmed by the object as a whole, I built it shape by shape; and sure enough, slowly these rectangles and triangle translated into the outline of tall, narrow, bottle!
Of course, it's not enough to have just an outline. Looking at the object as a whole, the colors dissolved into one another, but if I blurred my vision, I could see the bottle peel off into more shapes, like one of those Paint by Number kits. So, I treated it like a Paint by Number kit and filled each shape with various shades of gray, until my outline became three-dimensional.
Life Lesson:
1. The "big picture" is made up of dozens of other pictures.
The gray Styrofoam ball was three shades of gray, not one. You can't expect to apply one color and have it turn out the way you would like. Life is the same way. Most large goals peal off into many smaller other goals. I was going to have to be patient and realize that my first attempt at painting might not be as easy as I thought
2. Not trying is the same as failing.
The jar looked like a gray blob because I didn't want to fail. I think that sometimes I convince myself that maybe I'm not failing quite as much if I don't commit completely. I don't want to be at the end of my life, with a half-finished legacy because I didn't use my time wisely or became so fixated on doing things right the first time that I didn't take any risks. Life is messy and oftentimes you won't get things right the first time, but if you're going to make a mistake, make it loud and obvious, instead of tiptoeing around the issue.
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October 25, 2009
The building looked like an old factory. I paid the cab driver, gathered my things, and stepped out into a mixture of excitement and dread. Three stories of red brick and brightly colored banners loomed before me. Besides the method of transportation and the absence of a Care Bears lunch pail, this was not unlike my first day of Kindergarten; same nervousness, same insecurities. Why, at the age of thirty-one, did I still feel like a five-year-old? I shook off my anxiety, faked a smile, and marched up the steps of Lill Street Art Center.
Beginning Painting was on the third floor. I wandered into a
simple room with a high ceiling and paint-speckled floor. The space was light and open with easels, supplies, lining the walls. A small group of us, all women, timidly set up chairs to wait for our instructor.
Steve Amos looked like an artist. Beside the obvious giveaways, like the paint on his pants, he carried that artsy vibe I had come to recognize in my 20 or so years as a performer. He offered a quick "Good morning!" coupled with some commentary on his morning dose of coffee, then bustled about the room, gathering brushes, canvas and paint.
Once he had things set up to his liking, he grabbed the roster. As he checked off each of our names he requested a brief introduction; where are you from, what is your line of work, why are you taking Beginning Painting? As he went down the list, it seemed everyone had some form of prior experience or had a job that could utilize painting somehow. I was the only one there on a whim.
For our first lesson, we would be creating 2 gradient scales. Steve whipped up a quick example. The first scale was a smooth transition from black to white, the second scale followed the pattern of the first, but separated the shades into 7 rectangles. He made it seem easy enough. Each of us dolloped black and white acrylic paint onto our palettes, and went off to claim an easel.
From the beginning, I wanted everything to be perfect. The tape was carefully laid, the columns delicately measured. The inner rectangles were so impeccably designed that you'd never guess the point was to fill them with paint! I scooped some black onto my brush and took a breath.
It started off well enough. I could feel myself falling
in love with the texture of the paint and the soothing act of swishing from side to side. It was such a relaxing thing to have my eyes and hands work together with very little interference from my mind. As I mixed the paint and the brush make contact with the canvas little flashes of Bob Ross and his "happy little trees" teased the edges of my mind. Then, things started to go down hill.
I took a step back from my painting. Somehow I
had lighter streaks amongst my darker shades.This inconsistency in the color broke up the intended transitional quality that we were striving for. Hastily, I started slapping the canvas with darker strokes. FYI, Acrylic paint is only open for so long. Once it gets tacky you can't work with it any more. Attempting to paint over it before it was dry just ended up making it worse.
I would love to say that I fully redeemed myself with my second scale, but I was taught not to lie.
It was the end of class, and I had little to show for it. A little deflated, I took my brushes and cup of murky gray water to the sink. As I combed over the bristles, and watched the stream of black and white swirl down the drain, I reflected on the day.
Steve had said that we would fail many times. I have issues with failing.
I decided to feed my disappointment at the art center's First Slice Cafe. I munched on my organic omellette, and pondered the day. Now that I was outside of the situation, my mind had the chance to teach me a few things. One of my problems was that I wasn't working out the different colors on the palette. Instead, I was attempting to work it out on the canvas and that was leading to an inconsistency with the color. I couldn't see this before because my brain was so clogged with thoughts of inadequacy and fear of failing.
I acknowledged with a grimace the parallels between my approach to painting, and my life.
Maybe I would be five forever.
Then, my 31 year old self stepped in and reminded me that I had never taken an art class before. So what if my scale wasn't that great. So what if I'm behind everyone else? This is what learning is all about! And if my approach to painting immitates my approach to life, maybe I can learn more than just how to paint plastic fruit.
So, Today's Life Lesson is:
Opportunity has an expiration date.
Jason talked about the paint being open, meaning that the time to manipulate and mix the paint was temporary. I too need to be open to opportunities that come my way and take advantage of them before the moment passes me by.
