The Amateur versus The Professional

At one of my weekly art classes, I saw a girl painting the morning glory, using a photograph as a reference. Being an avid fan of flower paintings, I couldn't hold back the sudden surge of enthusiasm within to get hold of that piece of photograph which seemed rather old and yellow from use by the many art students who had studied there for the last 20 years. Anyone could tell this judging from the supposedly light purple blooms that now appeared to be darker with the blue sky in the background the shade of turquoise.

Nevertheless, I theorized that owing to her commendable training at the art class, the young female Picasso’s fluidity in applying the colours on the painting mesmerized my excited soul. The colour, the form, the simplicity in bringing out the real scenery, the particular attention given to the hour of the day and the feel of the painting as a whole – all of those elements strikingly combined to produce a dramatic painting that could mark the difference between a Tate Modern’s material and a piece of junk.

Feeling determined, I decided that I would be my own Picasso and so produce a painting of the morning glory too. No, not quite – rather, a better version of the morning glory painting because I’m evil and I cannot stand to see other people having that satisfied look on their faces after completing the painting of the morning glory. Errr… how many times have I mentioned morning glory in this paragraph already? 

Scratch, scratch.

So, at the next opportunity, I quickly rushed to get hold of the picture from my teacher’s reference album and waved it triumphantly, not realizing how childish I was being in a class full of children. With no time to waste, I immediately started to work on producing my next masterpiece, while my art teacher assisted the other children with their works. Being so engrossed, I didn’t feel how fast time flew, but at the end of the class I was proud to present my work of art to the sifu, and eagerly awaited his praises. Or, was I expecting too much? From the lines that were formed on his forehead, guessed the answer was yes… (big grin).

My sick-looking flowers. Notice the dark blooms, 

they were so dark they were barely noticeable.

The absence of layers also rendered the 

whole composition flat.

For a second, I thought I caught a glimpse of a seasoned lecturer in my teacher’s eyes, all set to bombard me with a full tutorial on the basics of painting. Instead, he took a piece of watercolour drawing paper and did a demonstration painting of the same reference. By then, the smaller kids had long left the class, leaving only the older ones to finish off their artworks and the lady clerk who is my teacher’s wife tidying up the place. I patiently waited for him to complete the demonstration while at the same time, straining my ears listening to his sermon. The words he spoke sounded very familiar like in a déjà vu sort of occurrence. Later I figured out that it was because he had been telling them to me over and over again like the sound of a broken record, only that the words normally entered through an ear and went out the same one. They didn’t even make it to the brain to be stored temporarily, let alone permanently. When he was done, he went on and on to compare the techniques he engaged to bring out the form, adding the tones, the layers, yadda yadda yadda as opposed to my amateurish work. I had nothing else to do but nod to all of his points in total agreement. True enough, i had not been practising the theories I had learned. Instead, I preferred to apply what I thought was right when I could just be going against the flow. My weekend couldn't be any more complete than finishing a bad painting and subjecting myself to mental torture of the first degree. 

At the end of the day, I looked back and started to reflect on my very objective of signing up for the class. If I’d wanted to become good at this trade, I should have toed the line and not be too thrilled and greedy at grabbing the opportunities even though it would mean spending many many years on learning and training. But better late than never, right? And that was just what I wanted to do from then onwards. 

I went home that evening thinking about whom I could gift the ugly painting to while pretending that I did it in conjunction with their special occasion… I mean who would know the difference between a good and a bad painting? There would always be stories to tell about your interpretation of a work of art, I could say mine was an experiment on space and layers, hence the sense of flatness. So I was looking forward to part ways with this particular painting as well. But then, after thinking it over, maybe it would just better stay in my possession in case 100 years from now, people will be hunting for this particular 'Picasso’s' early works. Who knows in the future, I will be famous for my avant garde technique known as 'Flatism'. 

The fresh-looking demonstration piece done 

by my teacher. Notice the warm and cold 

colours used to separate the flowers from 

the wall that they are noticeably protruding 

above the surface.

Lost in Transition

Continuing on, we travelled by train north-west of Italy and ended up in Genova, the capital of Liguria as I had intended to visit Serravalle Designer Outlet located some 50km east of the ancient seaport city. We quickly checked into the hotel and took the train towards Arquata Scriviata as I was already overcome with excitement at the prospect of shopping for discounted designer items. 10 minutes into the journey, as the train slowly snaked into the mountains, I had a bad feeling that we were going in the wrong direction instead of Serravalle prompting me to approach the Ticket Inspector to find out. With his smattering of English, he replied no because the train was heading west and in a very concerned voice, started to ask if any of the passengers could speak English to help him explain to me. Aww… I was so touched by his kindness!

A Russian guy who was travelling with his family explained that we were indeed lost and that we should get down at the next station to make a turn back towards Genova Piazza Principe station to change. So as the train approached the next stop, we jumped down and made our way to the ticket office in search of the counter. The place appeared rather abandoned and with no one in sight, we stepped out in bewilderment. Seconds later, a man appeared from a yellow wooden building next door looking concerned but otherwise friendly. I guessed the place where he came from was a restaurant (it had the words Caffe, Ristoratore and Tabacchi) and he could be the owner who perhaps also doubled as a ticket agent. I noticed a woman standing at the door of the cottage-like building. Without hesitation, the man explained that she was his sister. He asked further if we were lost to which we detailed our predicament. “Just wait on the same platform for the next train going back to Genova. There is no need to cross as there is only one track and no platform on the other side. Your tickets are still good for the return journey and you should be fine”, he assured us before disappearing back into the building. 

The yellow cottage beside the train station

The two people were the only ones we met at this peaceful country. With just the two of us sitting at the stop later, a strange feeling of loneliness suddenly enveloped me; the yellow wooden café and restaurant (I think) beside the station, red and pink roses blooming on the other side of it, the afternoon mist that seemingly descended closer to the ground as if to blanket the rail track, the chilly mountain air and the silence that befell the surrounding… cool breeze blew in our faces and stirred the leaves that stood in its path but everything else was so still and quiet, gripping me in a dizzyingly mixed emotion. Anyone or anything could emerge from anywhere, catching us off-guard and we would have nowhere to run to… and then whatever they were, they would capture us, tie us to wooden poles and carry us into the dark woods never to be seen or heard of again... Contrary to the serenity outside, there was total chaos inside my head. Just thinking of the eventuality gave me  jitters. Or man, did I see that in a movie? What was is called again? 

Despite the anxiety, I began to realize that the moment somehow felt very special like we needn’t anything or anyone then because we had each other to care about. I held my husband’s hand tight like I didn’t want to let go and I secretly harboured a dream of returning to the place and reliving the moment, sans the negative sentiment I had about the place in the beginning. But first I needed to check if they had any accommodation for visitors since it was a small settlement (I guess), or else we might have to put ourselves up at the abandoned ticket office... oh oh, no thank you. The only doubt I had was whether my husband shared the same feeling or was I only flattering myself with these so-called romantic ideas? Looking at his face that offered very little expression, I guessed the answer was the latter. Whatever went on in his mind was beyond my imagination but then again, that is a topic for another day. 

I wondered where the place was on the map. Checking out the signboard, I learned that it was called Mele – what an exotic name with such an enigmatic appeal. Well, Mele, I promise you that you are forever going to be etched in my memory as the place I felt safest holding my husband’s hand, even if he held mine only to keep it warm. And if time wills it, I shall be back with the man I love to uncover your mysterious ambiance, perhaps walk aimlessly in the mist to feel the tiny droplets in my face (away from the train and rail track of course!), smell the blooming roses and breath your nose-numbing air. And I pray that the day will come soon with new friends and acquaintances to be made apart from those two people we met earlier.

The mist-shrouded rail track (top) and the rose bush (below)

In the end, just like a story with a happy ending, the train arrived and we made it back safely to Genova’s main station where we boarded the correct one to take us on my little quest for discounted designer items. I will never forget the beautiful view as we slowly made our way to the city; the houses sitting on the hill slopes, the river flowing in the valley and the sea in the distance. The whole lost incidence in Mele was well worth it.

River flowing in the valley along small settlements

Houses perched on the hill slope with thicker mist obscuring the background

The painting I did during one rainy afternoon at home that in a bizarre way reminiscence of the cold afternoon we encountered in Mele  a few weeks before. Of course this piece could be a whole lot better.

An Enchanted Window

I’ve heard about the lagoon city of Venice since I was a child – my father used to tell me about the charm of the place, its amazing architecture, the hundreds of bridges and the gondolas floating on the serene canals even though he had never been there himself. In fact, he told me about other places too that he dubbed the Seven Wonders of the World. Many decades later, I discovered that not all the places he mentioned were remarkable ancient constructions but it did not change the fact that they still and do emanate some kind of awe and splendour at human architectural marvels even after many millenniums. Over the years, the places he has been telling me stories about somehow or other built my interest to visit them and see them with my very eyes.

On my maiden trip to Venice, I was delighted to be in the company of my husband. We visited in the early June of 2012 when the weather was mild but devoid of the throng of tourists. I decided on a Guest House after researching the area and reading the reviews from the other guests online. We arrived at the property safely, but not before having to lug suitcases along a paved street and across a bridge that made us walk about 800 meters. Certainly not my idea of fun, but no one stopped me from booking a hotel closer to the train station, so long as I was willing to break the bank…

As we brought packed instant food, my husband asked me to soak the pre-cooked food in the sink filled with hot water as the place didn’t have any kettle for boiling. It was long passed lunch time and he was digging my tote in search of leftover airline food like chocolates and biscuits and being almost 100kg and standing close to 6 feet, I commiserated.  To my disappointment, the water was not hot enough to cook the food well. I prepared them nonetheless and what we had later was half cooked rice with lukewarm spicy beef dish. I remember the two of us sat quietly on the bed holding paper plates in our hands chewing the beef and trying hard to swallow the rice that felt like sand while staring and blinking at each other. What a great start to my ideal vacation. (Pout).

My first time in Venice. Will there be a second?  

On the second day, we set out on our tour to explore scenic Venice. Apart from the gondolas and vaporettos, Venice is famous for the hundreds of bridges that span across the channels connecting the small islands. I salivated at the sights of tourists riding the gondola with one particular barge ferrying passengers with a singer to serenade them. He sang an Italian operatic number at the top of his lungs that everyone who was standing on the bridges watching cheered and applauded him when the gondola gently swayed passed them. I watched the passengers admiring the singer and his impeccable voice with envy but the ride was just too costly for two people that I would rather not live the dream and had better spent the money on a nice handbag. (Wink).

The gondola with a singer serenading the passengers

The long walk on the pedestrian-only streets of Venice took a toll on my feet but the thrilled kid in me told me to wage on and hide the pain from my husband, fearing that he would drag me back to the hotel to recuperate. While crossing one of the bridges, I turned to my left and saw this lovely Venetian balcony with wooden-framed glass window leaves and white curtains that was decorated with colourful flowers. I could only figure out petunias in 7 hues, hydrangeas, geraniums, roses and vines embellishing the tiny gallery of sort. The view was so captivating that for a while, I was frozen in a moment of enchantment. I wondered if Juliet could be calling out her Romeo from a balcony so beautiful as that one though the setting was in a more than a hundred kilometers away Verona (teehee...!). I couldn’t resist taking many pictures of it – they would make useful references for my painting later. 

I managed to capture the images of a few other windows but the one I saw earlier kept on playing in my head like slides in one of those business presentations, except that the pictures were more stimulating. I knew then that I had to paint the picture or otherwise, I would suffer from the restless syndrome that could see me going on window shopping for extended hours trying on clothes, shoes and handbags but never buying any of them, much to the contempt of the sales assistants.

The actual window

And yes, eventually upon return home, I painted the scene while getting myself lost in an extended period of solitude, enjoying productive hours disengaged from the world and all that was happening around it. I enjoyed working on the piece as I watched the objects started to take shape, feeling like I had embraced the whole of Venice in spite of being there for only a few days. After all, this is one of my father’s favourite places that I’m painting.

The painting I did two weeks later at home

The Flora Island

On our second day in Venice, we left the hotel rather late and I was already in the mood for lunch. We strolled along the street in the direction of the train station in search of a restaurant as I had read on some internet forums that the eateries located along the canal where all the actions were happening would be a tourist trap. Just as I was browsing through the display windows of the shops lining the way, my attention was caught by this island of flowers placed in wicker baskets and faux terra cotta containers on the pavement. My conniving mind quickly plotted the scheme to freeze that vision in photographs for my next painting project, all the while throwing caution not to attract the attention of the shop owner. A few clicks later, victory and I bolted!

 The island of flowers

Not far ahead, we saw a decent restaurant with the waiter busy attending to the customers. Opposite the place was a stall selling tourist knick-knacks including Venetian masks, fridge magnets and key rings. We slowly approached without much anticipation but like a magnet, the waiter’s friendliness pulled us towards a table with two seats on the pavement. The spot that he offered us was perfect to eat and to people-watch, which is one of my favourite pastimes.

Before long, we got what we ordered; I had seafood spaghetti while my husband had seafood pizza. After the incident with half-cooked lunch the day before, who could resist a plate of Italian spaghetti with a medium-sized lobster washed down with a glass of fresh orange juice? I gobbled every single strand, left no morsel of the lobster and the clams and was super contented at the end of the meal. 

The more appetizing lunch that the writer enjoyed compared to the sand-tasted rice the day before.

While waiting for the food to digest, we just sat at the table and watched people walking by, stopped at the souvenir kiosk to shop for reminders of their trip. I still cannot comprehend how I could find bliss in watching people walking by; some hurriedly, others without any aim but the joyful feeling continued on post-vacation period that I completed another watercolour painting of the flower island to remind me of the beautiful city of Venice.

The watercolour painting

The Point of No Return

My love affair with watercolour painting was rekindled only a little above four years ago. I was at this annual flower event somewhere outside the city, happily photographing the beautiful blooms when I stepped into the pavilion displaying floral watercolour paintings. My heart instantly fluttered in a rhythm of indescribable elation that could only be understood by a child. I visited every single watercolour painting on display, scrutinized them, inspected the cleverly mixed colours and strokes and admiring how the artists were able to compose such visual feasts that did not utter a single word, or make a single sound to make you understand the beautiful language of art.

My mind was immediately overwhelmed by the urge to find that long-lost excitement at completing a painting and getting praises from my father, my teachers and friends, the feeling which I last relished almost 30 years ago.

I came across an art class brochure at the welcome counter with pictures of men and women artists painting en plein air, got myself drawn to it, took it home and slept on it for a further nine months before summoning enough courage to call up the place to inquire. Yeah, that was how long it took me to make that so-called giant leap because I am not one of those ideal go-getters who jumped at the next opportunity to make it big.

And the next day, I was this proud 30-something lady armed with my cheap drawing block, watercolour set and nylon brushes which I picked up from the stationery section at a hypermarket, all set for my art journey in a class located in an upscale neighbourhood… but surprisingly full of primary and secondary school children!

Yikes…what am I doing here? How come there are only kids in this class, and more kids in another class? Where are all the grownups? Not a single soul in sight, except the teacher and the clerk. Don’t grownups love painting anymore? Have they forgotten the bliss of getting to dip their hands in those colour tubs and smear the sticky slimy substance on white papers to produce their masterpieces, and perhaps sometimes on their mothers’ vintage linens which had been passed down through several generations, or worst, the wall…? C’mon guys, painting is fun!

Yet, all those thoughts only blurted inside my head, for soon I found myself eyeing the door while scampering to the registration table, impatient to seek an answer, and eventually to make a dash towards my car!

Still horrified by the scandalous exposé, I voiced my concern over the harmful effects a ‘mature’ lady would contract from learning how to paint in the same class as ‘immature’ kids. Well of course our aptitude levels are different, no? I deserve better classmates capable of engaging in some discourse, those who will enable us to exchange notes, and share our inspirations, and who knows soon have our first solo or group exhibition in some posh gallery downtown, not some kids who are still being ferried around by their kiasu parents who once perhaps also harboured the dream of having a solo or group  exhibition in some posh gallery downtown but have to stop dreaming and pass the torch to the kids to continue with the race, get the idea?

But alas, none of those was going to happen. The registration clerk assured me that it was ok and that she was much older than all of us at the learning centre but she enjoyed being surrounded by kids for they made her feel young.

Silence.

Right.

I took a few seconds more to come to terms, processed the gruesome discovery and transformed it from one complex situation to an ‘either I make it or I break it moment’. After all, I was already there. So what’s all the fuss with your ego, lady? Throw them out the window already!

However, I was beyond surprise to find out how talented the kids were; despite their salad days and supposed innocence, some were painting sceneries, others were sketching cartoon characters while the bigger ones were copying great artists’ works. And they were equipped with paint brushes made of natural hair in several different sizes, drawing sheets weighing at least 300gm and watercolour sets of brands I had never heard of. They sure looked expensive enough to become the toys of some immature kids, so I thought.

A little embarrassed and now, obviously uneasy, I quietly sneaked into the class and headed straight to a seat at the corner, thinking there I could avoid all souls, determined not to make any contact with the kids and most importantly from where I could form some kind of fortification with my arms, and where I could pretentiously tilt my shoulder in a bid to cover my unquestionably ugly paintings or whatever that was going to take shape on my drawing sheets from the kids! Oh, their prying eyes, their nosiness and their expensive toys…and my cheap art supplies and my awful paintings…they just didn’t jell.

But yet, my soft-spoken teacher, whom I later learned was a retired art lecturer and a full-time artist, welcomed me with open arms. After carefully selecting facts of my background that I wanted to share and my recent experience in art (which could best be summed up in a word – zilch), exchanging pleasantries and my expectations from the class, he handed me a picture of a group of vegetables to start pencil sketching.

At this point I stopped breathing, gawked, cringed and leaned back, my eyes bulged in the most genuine reaction of disbelief that I bet I could win the Academy Award for Best Actress. I turned up to lock them in what felt like the longest gaze at my new teacher, all the while talking inside my head:

Excusez-moi, you’re joking right?

Wrong. He was dead serious. As he cracked a smile, he briefly explained the importance of understanding the forms and structures of objects, and the tones and shades of colours before I could progress to the next level i.e. to start serious work with watercolour seriously. Well, if he hadn’t known it yet, the stickman was the best pencil sketch that I had ever come up with in the three decades of my life. (Of course I made that up).

Nevertheless, with a reassuring tone in his voice, he stressed that I should give it a try. He then walked away to check on the other children’s works, leaving me to deal with my first world problem.

I turned back at the picture and stared at it, thought for a second on how long it would take for me to paint like one of those artists I saw at the flower event.

What have I done? Do I really want to be here?

That was not even the picture of flowers… I want to learn to paint flowers, I rebelled within. I felt like confronting my teacher about the relevance of sketching a group of unattractive vegetables in my quest for artistic enlightenment but I refrained.

So I reluctantly picked up my 2B pencil, started to draw the outline before half-heartedly adding the tones and shades, stopped every now and then to ponder on my future as an artist that now seemed bleak, stole glances at the other kid’s artworks sitting nearby while blocking their views from my own artwork with my left arm, took a peek at the woman clerk who was having a chat with a parent while trying to make out if that kid sitting near the door was picking his nose, all in two hours that felt like 200 years.

And the result? I held my breath when I took a look at the sketch from a distance for a larger perspective and immediately let out a chuckle. Although my teacher pointed out that most of the elements were missing from the piece, I couldn’t be any happier. In an instant, the dark clouds that were seemingly hanging above me earlier slowly parted to allow a silver lining to shine through. Like in the movies, yeah? I went home that day a free soul for having (at least) successfully breaking out the prison that I created myself, the mental shackles that had bounded me for so long, pulling me back every time I tried to move forward.

I have been going back to that class every single Saturday since unless it was closed. And I have also completed many flower paintings; I have done orchids, roses, bougainvilleas, heliconias, petunias, hydrangeas, bauhunias, cannas and many more. Painting flowers now serve as an indicator of my state of boredom. When I’m not inspired by anything else, I’ll paint flowers because they don’t need a lot of inspiration to start, making it feel more like a chore now. Pathetic, right?

Three years have passed since that first art class and many exciting moments have been created along this fulfilling journey among which were winning contests, participating in exhibitions and going on painting holidays. I stopped attending the class about two months ago due to personal reasons. I'm not discounting the fact that my teacher will see more of me soon. These days, the classes are more like a mental retreat for me where I get to paint quietly in the company of like-minded people (no matter how old or young they are) rather than a formal educational set up. I guess two months’ break is enough to start having ants in my pants. So just you wait Sir, for I’ll be back!

(By the way, the registration clerk turned out to be my teacher’s wife. And the kids, they pretty much left me to myself most of the time).

Grin.

The not-so-elegant group of vegetables that almost break the artist’s spirits but thanks to her perseverance in surviving the first two hours of her life as an art student, the sketch turned out better than expected, or so she thought…with room for improvement.