Found this on pixabay.com.
As part of my return to a high school schedule, in an effort to ensure that I get all the things done that I want to, I'm revisiting a painting I started last year. I got as far as the under-sketch, attempted to paint the sky, and go so disheartened at my lack of skill, I immediately stopped and put the canvas and easel away. I haven't touched it since last November.
I even flipped the canvas around, so I wouldn't have to look at the miserable attempt at a stormy sky.
Still, that miserable attempt haunted me. That turned around canvas irritated me.
I didn't really realise just how much it bothered me until I restarted the piece this week. As part of my new schedule and setting myself assessment (as it were; really it's just imposing deadlines for things I want to get done. you know, like adults do), I aim to turn in a new painting every month this year. This goal will, of course change, when (hopefully) I return to work, but I hope to get as close to it as possible nevertheless.
Anyway, the first painting I've decided to do was the one I started more than six months ago. It's due at the end of the month, which means I have just about three weeks left to get it done. Tuesday was the first day I picked up may paints in a long, long time. With a nearly two-hour block set aside for painting, I used the entire time to fix the sky.
It worked. The look of the sky improved a great deal. It looked like a stormy sky, instead just a random smearing of greyish paint with some childish attempt at a cloud. I was surprised and not a little proud of myself, I'm not going to lie.
But the best part happened during clean up, as I was washing my paintbrushes and palette in the sink. That familiar, subtle smell of acrylic paint hit my nose. Instantly, I was transported back to high school art class. It was one of the few places I felt content. It was a place where I felt I could stretch and grow and be myself without fear of judgement or torment. In art class, I was encouraged to bury myself in the things I found fascinating. I was encouraged and engaged, and aided when I needed it - without ridicule.
Mr. Turier did not shun me or roll his eyes at me when I put up my hand to answer a question, because I read ahead the night before, like my science teacher did. He didn't lecture our class about what terrible, lazy good-for-nothings we were, as my chemistry teacher did (he was also my physics teacher... which I dropped).
No, in art, experimentation and deviation, exploration of our own particular strengths was encouraged. Conformity, beyond sticking to the loose parameters of our assignments, was not required.
Gods, art class and reading. Without them, I don't think I'd be around anymore.
Anyway, the smell of acrylic paint brought that all back; a great rush of all the happy feelings I associated with my time in that studio. Bright memories shining in the gloom of what was my general high school experience.
It felt a little how I imagine falling in love must be.
Tuesday night, I went to bed feeling incredibly happy. Not only had I fixed what was a terrible first attempt, but I rekindled my love of painting, of creating art pieces.
I don't know if the painting will be any good in the end. That remains to be seen. Yesterday, I added some brighter colours so it looked a little less like nighttime, and I don't think it looks as good... Maybe once everything else is done it'll look more cohesive. Having a stunning piece is not the point, though. The point is the creation, and the love.
A high school schedule is exhausting (I took a long nap yesterday afternoon, and remember sleeping a great deal while in high school, too), but I'm so, so glad that I challenged myself with it.
Right, these blog posts are now written the night before, for my 'homework.' So now I must go and practice my guitar. This will be posted on my site first thing in the morning. Who knows when I'll get around to posting it on my social media.
Until then, then!
Ciao!
I even flipped the canvas around, so I wouldn't have to look at the miserable attempt at a stormy sky.
Still, that miserable attempt haunted me. That turned around canvas irritated me.
I didn't really realise just how much it bothered me until I restarted the piece this week. As part of my new schedule and setting myself assessment (as it were; really it's just imposing deadlines for things I want to get done. you know, like adults do), I aim to turn in a new painting every month this year. This goal will, of course change, when (hopefully) I return to work, but I hope to get as close to it as possible nevertheless.
Anyway, the first painting I've decided to do was the one I started more than six months ago. It's due at the end of the month, which means I have just about three weeks left to get it done. Tuesday was the first day I picked up may paints in a long, long time. With a nearly two-hour block set aside for painting, I used the entire time to fix the sky.
It worked. The look of the sky improved a great deal. It looked like a stormy sky, instead just a random smearing of greyish paint with some childish attempt at a cloud. I was surprised and not a little proud of myself, I'm not going to lie.
But the best part happened during clean up, as I was washing my paintbrushes and palette in the sink. That familiar, subtle smell of acrylic paint hit my nose. Instantly, I was transported back to high school art class. It was one of the few places I felt content. It was a place where I felt I could stretch and grow and be myself without fear of judgement or torment. In art class, I was encouraged to bury myself in the things I found fascinating. I was encouraged and engaged, and aided when I needed it - without ridicule.
Mr. Turier did not shun me or roll his eyes at me when I put up my hand to answer a question, because I read ahead the night before, like my science teacher did. He didn't lecture our class about what terrible, lazy good-for-nothings we were, as my chemistry teacher did (he was also my physics teacher... which I dropped).
No, in art, experimentation and deviation, exploration of our own particular strengths was encouraged. Conformity, beyond sticking to the loose parameters of our assignments, was not required.
Gods, art class and reading. Without them, I don't think I'd be around anymore.
Anyway, the smell of acrylic paint brought that all back; a great rush of all the happy feelings I associated with my time in that studio. Bright memories shining in the gloom of what was my general high school experience.
It felt a little how I imagine falling in love must be.
Tuesday night, I went to bed feeling incredibly happy. Not only had I fixed what was a terrible first attempt, but I rekindled my love of painting, of creating art pieces.
I don't know if the painting will be any good in the end. That remains to be seen. Yesterday, I added some brighter colours so it looked a little less like nighttime, and I don't think it looks as good... Maybe once everything else is done it'll look more cohesive. Having a stunning piece is not the point, though. The point is the creation, and the love.
A high school schedule is exhausting (I took a long nap yesterday afternoon, and remember sleeping a great deal while in high school, too), but I'm so, so glad that I challenged myself with it.
Right, these blog posts are now written the night before, for my 'homework.' So now I must go and practice my guitar. This will be posted on my site first thing in the morning. Who knows when I'll get around to posting it on my social media.
Until then, then!
Ciao!
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