Every Friday evening, I teach acrylic painting classes at the Starling Musings Art Gallery in Monticello, Fla. It is something I have enjoyed a great deal and, even though it is technically my job (or one of my jobs), it never does feel like the typical “clock in, clock out” sort of job. While, of course, there is a certain level of time, energy and planning that goes into each of my lessons, I find teaching people to paint to be deeply rewarding work.
Each lesson starts off pretty technical, behind the scenes. I have to come up with an idea of what I wish to paint, and then I have to paint a version of that idea at home in my studio. This often requires a lot of trial and error, as I am a self-taught artist, and I am forever teaching myself new techniques. But, as I always say, if I can teach me how to paint, I can certainly teach you how to paint. Once I have developed a suitable prompt painting, and have taught myself how to execute it, it's just a matter of gathering the right brushes, colors and materials for the job. And then actually teaching, of course!
All of this is straight-forward – rather simple and “text book.” Plan a class, teach a class; pretty basic stuff, and it's the same process week after week, no matter if there are three people in my class or 10. That part never changes.
The part that does change, however, is the class itself. Each class is utterly unique, and no two students are the same. Some students come in confidently, and paint with a concentration and determination that even I find inspiring. Others come into class timid and unsure, afraid of doing something wrong and making a mistake that cannot be fixed (I always assure them that any mistakes can always be fixed, and the brushes wont break if you give them a little assertiveness). Some students come into class full of energy, laughing and joking with their classmates – the life of the party, while others come in quietly, perhaps worn out from a hard day at the office, seeking the relaxation and reprieve that art so often provides. Some people laugh and tackle the lesson exuberantly, while others hesitate and over-think every stroke of their paintbrush.
I love each of these types of students, and together they all make for a wonderful class. I love hearing students encouraging other students, complimenting one another, reassuring each other. It's perhaps one of my favorite things. Art brings out our deepest fears of not being “good enough.” It also brings out our ability to be empathetic and kind to others. I have never seen any of my students behave in a way that is rude or hurtful to the other members of the class.
The conversations are a big highlight to these classes for me. While everyone is concentrating on doing this difficult thing many of them have never attempted before, the conversation tends to wander. Sometimes it's about movies, or work or recent life events. But sometimes, deeper conversations take place, and this happened in my most recent class.
We were discussing perspective. Several students were concentrating so closely on their paintings that they were losing sight of what it was they were painting; in this case, a palm tree silhouetted against a setting sun. One student, while trying to paint the fronds of her tree, became frustrated and asked, “Why do my trees look so bad?”
Upon inspection, there was nothing wrong with her trees, exactly, except that she hadn't finished them yet. Many of my classes are a “trust the process” sort of exercise. To answer her question, I said, “Because you're two inches from them.”
This launched a discussion about how, sometimes, when we paint, we sit with our faces so close to the canvas, concentrating on every little brush stroke and every blended hue, that we lose sight of the bigger picture we are painting. From that perspective, we can only see the mistakes we make, the places where our hand shook, the areas where our paint is too thin, or that blob where we dropped the paintbrush by accident. We are too close to the canvas to get an accurate view of what our efforts are actually building. We spend hours pouring over our canvas, painstakingly second-guessing every moment where our brush touches our painting. It gives us a sort of tunnel-vision, where we cannot see the beauty in what we are doing anymore. It becomes too technical, too urgent, too frustrating. It becomes ugly, even when it isn't. Our neighbors beside us can look over at our painting and see the amazing image we have made, but they look at their own with that same cynicism.
This happens in life, too. We spend too long hyper-focusing on something that challenges us and it quickly becomes intimidating and ugly. We start to overthink, and suddenly we are so tangled up in the details, we get frustrated and stressed out. The situation quickly becomes overwhelming, and it starts to feel so much worse than it really is.
When this happens, both in life and when painting, my advice is to take a break. Walk away, gain a little distance. There have been times when I have been brought nearly to tears by a painting that I simply couldn't make look how I wanted. In those moments, I find it is helpful to leave the room, give my mind time to break away from the fixation and return a while later with a fresh set of eyes and a rested mind. Sometimes I don't return right away, not for days or weeks at a time. But when I do, it's never as bad as I thought. The solution that eluded me so completely before is now suddenly so obvious. “This just needs a little contrast, let's put a tree branch here to create a shadow.” “The painting is unbalanced, just add a little yellow here.” My fresh eyes can easily pinpoint the problem that was so sneaky and impossible before.
Sometimes, we need to remove ourselves from a frustrating situation in order to think about it clearly. When you are all tangled up in it, it can feel impossible and harrowing. But if you take a step back, and look at it again, you may see solutions and details you missed the first time. And not only is it not as bad as you thought, but it might be pretty darn good.