Earlier this week there was a dinner and activity at church for the women. They asked anyone attending to bring a paper bag with something that defined you, or something that you liked to do, but that people didn’t know, or would have a hard time guessing about you.

I had to think hard about this. I’m open about my interests, and most people know that I love photography and books, including writing, reading, and everything in between. So I wanted to bring something that I enjoy doing but don’t usually talk about. And that’s what painting is for me.

I’ve talked before about my love for writing and reading but in reality, I was already in love with papers and paints before I knew how to read. I remember how excited I used to be at the beginning of each school year when my mother took us shopping for new school supplies: the new pads of paper, so white and crisp and so full of possibilities; the felt markers, with their distinct scent, and the colored pencils with brighter colors and more ones than a rainbow. I don’t ever remember wanting new clothes, but new supplies were a must for me.

I had five years of art lessons in school (in junior high, 5th and 6th grade, and then 7th, 8th, and 9th grade in high school). There were a lot of pencil sketches and paints in the beginning, with watercolors and even architectural drafting later on. Lessons on perspective and light were also in there somewhere. Then, in the 10th grade, I chose to follow Humanities, and that ended my brief exposure to the arts.

I credit my love for the arts with my interest in photography. I knew I didn’t have the talent to draw but I figured I could learn photography (and learn I did). Of course, books are my passion, and when I finally started writing, I wanted to paint pictures with words instead.

But sometimes, when I need to de-stress and just do something for myself, I turn to the texture of a sheet of watercolor paper and a tin of broken up watercolor crayons, and I play with color. And this is what I decided to bring for the activity at church.

I know enough about art to know I’m not good enough, but I don’t let it bother me. It’s for fun and enjoyment, and if I start being too critical then it defeats the purpose.

 

 

 

I also like to try new things. Last week, I got a cheap set of oil pastels and an even cheaper blending stumps. I had a very vague idea of how to use them but after some Youtube tutorials, I was ready to try them. In one tutorial, the artist mentioned blending the colors well but not so much but that they become muddied. In my zeal to learn the technique, and in my over enjoyment in the project, that is exactly what happened, and I ended up with a corner of dirty colors. It was a first try and I learned my lesson. My second try with the oil pastels turned out much better (the last picture in this post).

In writing it’s the same. The first draft just needs to be done, completed. First drafts don’t come easy for me, but at least they’re starting points, even as bad as they are. Then the story comes to life in the all the stages of editing. But there comes a point when enough needs to be enough, and too much editing can almost be as bad as too little. It’s a fine line between the perfectionist and the achiever, and like everything else in life, I need to let go, I need to stop polishing all the sentences. This is the lesson I learned from spending some time with a few art projects.