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.
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