People constantly insisted I was not suited for anything artistic. “You have no artistic bone in your body,” my cousin would have teased. Even my seventh-grade art teacher returned my still life with a courteous nod and a gaze that said volumes. I used to believe similarly, therefore I cannot blame them. Visit us to see our special info!
Then, in a wave of epidemic boredom, I came onto an online ink painting course. Half-expecting to verify the long-standing family story regarding my absence of “the spark,” I signed up My brush shook on the rice paper on the first day. The teacher was an elderly man with crazy eyebrows and poor Wi-Fi. Declared he, “Let your arm be a river”. I giggled. My sentences came out like terrified worms running from a bird.
Still, watching the black ink grow across white sheets had a certain attraction. Authorized anarchy. The instructor insisted that mess has beauty. The teachings started to resemble a messy form of meditation. My dog barked, my phone rang, my tea spilled—I blatted all over my work. Not important. The ink worked, free as a child after cake. Should the brush stutter or skip, somehow that found expression in the finished product. My “mistakes” began to show deliberate nature. Disaster sometimes takes the form of art.
Friends laughed when I demonstrated development. Examining a crane I had sketched, my brother wondered whether it resembled a dragon. I shook my head. It swooped in from another story. I gave up trying to justify myself. In those still times, ink on paper became medicine. I discovered, step by step, that skill is not a fixed attribute. Clay is waiting for warm hands.
Driven by a terrible day, one night I painted a sequence of frantic, soaring cranes till my fingers cramped. The dried bits appeared nearly musical the following morning. Not perfect. Still, bursting with movement, integrity, and—dare I say—grit. I put a picture up online. Strangers said. Some were interested in purchasing them. The voice of my inner critic grew subdued.
Actually all you need is a cheap brush, tenacity, and a will to look stupid for a little. Given the inky smudges on my arms, perhaps talent is not some special sauce after all. Perhaps it’s only showing up, dirty, allowing yourself to be shocked.