Practice hasn’t yet made perfect, but I’ve moved beyond stick figures

Today’s watercolor technique is called “dry brushing.” Our instructor sits at her desk, holds the brush horizontally, and dabs brown paint in tentative little strokes that transform suddenly from random smudges to a patch of weeds in a shallow lake. A dozen students surround the desk, watching every swirl and stroke of the brush. 

As is typical of Linn-Benton Community College’s community education classes, these beginning watercolor students are almost entirely in my demographic — 60s, female, determined and exploring new creative skills after many years of hard work on others’ behalf.

While I’ve always loved the look of watercolor paintings, this is the first time I’ve been tutored in the art since a brief unit in high school. Back then, I was hampered in every art class medium we tried by my complete inability to draw.

My tree branches trailed downward at strange angles, and my teacher gently encouraged me to observe actual trees and note how the branches behaved. The circles I carefully shaded, as though a light shone on them from the right side, were more like basketballs going flat. “You can’t even draw a round circle!” a classmate exclaimed, laughing in disbelief.

How did she do that, free-handing a perfect circle with a pencil and shading it to a ball with realistic dimension and shape?

A long time later, I forgave my classmate and learned the magic of a growth mindset. I could learn to do things, even if I wasn’t naturally good at them. It would take longer, and I’d have to take it step by step, but it was possible.

For example, 10 years after I wept over darts and facings in junior high home economics, I learned to sew by following the directions on children’s patterns, producing little shirts and pants my son could wear. Before long, something magical happened, and I loved to sew, eventually cranking out hundreds of dresses, T-shirts, bags, curtains and other creative and useful items.

But other than drawing stick figures to entertain my children in church, I hadn’t returned to art.

When I cleaned out my youngest son’s house after his sudden passing in November, I found a set of watercolor paints along with brushes and paper. While I knew he had an artistic flair, I hadn’t known of any interest in painting. It was my sign, I decided. I would sign up for a watercolor class, focusing my grief and restlessness into something Steven would have appreciated.

I’ve always wished I could paint the beauty of a sunset over the Coast Range or the shape of the first daffodils in spring. Maybe the time had come.

I printed out the supply list and shopped for it in confusion. Did a Princeton velvet touch #8 long round brush refer to the length of the bristles or the handle? Did it matter if the tube of paint was cobalt instead of cerulean blue?

While the first class held the deep discomfort of a new venture among strangers, some taking the class for the third time, I was grateful to find that I was OK with being incompetent. If you don’t know how to do things yet, then of course you won’t be skilled. But if you show up and watch and listen, you’ll learn, little by little.

“We’re going to paint a fish,” the instructor said. I assumed that my terrible drawing skills would again be an obstacle, but I would be brave. To my amazement, she handed us each a fuzzy photo of a trout and a piece of carbon paper. Not only were we allowed to trace the outline of the fish instead of freehanding it, such cheating was expected and encouraged.

It was a delightful introduction to the class. I learned to wet the paper with water and to play with colors on a palette, soon producing a realistically fish-shaped fish with a teal back, a soft coral belly, and random dark gray spots oozing softly into the wet paint.

Proudly, I took photos of it and texted them to my family.

In subsequent classes, we learned the gradients of water on paper, from dry to damp to moist to wet, each with its applications. “Moist and happy goes to damp and dangerous real quick,” we learned.

Paint had a continuum of textures as well: tea, milk, cream and butter.

Week by week, I added to my notes and painstakingly, imperfectly practiced my skills with colors mixed on the palette, water brushed on the paper, and careful strokes of paint.

I am a long way from painting a recognizable scene of the sun rising behind the oaks along Muddy Creek or setting behind the barn. What I’ve learned in other creative fields applies here as well: It’s a long trail from what your mind envisions to the actual product, and you can unleash your imagination better and faster if you learn the basic skills first.

Methodical practice and techniques are the friend, not the enemy, of creativity.

So I watch the teacher mix burnt sienna and cerulean blue to paint the sky, I let myself have fun making countless mistakes, and I think of my son, who would be so proud of me picking up this craft where he laid it down.