The journey of a thousand strokes begins with a single brush: my oil painting adventure.
As a child, I was captivated by the world of art, with fairies, pop stars, and the enigmatic Vincent van Gogh. It was a picture book, 'For the Love of Vincent,' that sparked my interest, presenting Van Gogh's life with a twist - a teddy bear version of the artist. This book led me to explore the real Van Gogh and his vibrant, captivating art, which resonated with my own finger-painting adventures. I adored both the man and the bear, even dressing up as 'Vincent Van Bear' for Book Week, much to the confusion of my peers.
Painting brought me joy for years, until I entered high school and art became something to be judged. The fear of criticism made me question my artistic abilities and the vibrant lives of artists like Vincent seemed out of reach. I convinced myself that mediocrity was my destiny, and so I stopped painting.
But when writing about art became my profession, the desire to paint resurfaced, especially with oil paints, a medium I had never explored but always admired for its prestige. I wanted to learn, not just the technique, but also to embrace the possibility of being mediocre and still pursue my passion.
I enrolled in an oil painting class, committing to four hours every Sunday. The basics were my starting point: color theory, composition, drawing, and the crucial art of paint mixing. Our teacher's approval was essential before we could begin painting, ensuring our palette was correctly mixed. We explored various forms, from abstraction to landscapes and portraits, learning by copying masters like John Singer Sargent and Anders Zorn. Every lesson was a challenge, but also a fascinating journey.
The toughest lesson was learning to find pleasure in the struggle. I wasn't an instant oil painting master. One week, I spent three miserable hours trying to capture a satin ribbon, leaving me in a foul mood. I was angry at my lack of effortless skill and even more angry at myself for feeling that way. But when I collected my painting a week later, I realized two things that boosted my morale: my ribbon, though imperfect, was a decent first attempt, and I had learned a valuable lesson - I hated painting fabric, but I could do it, and with practice, I'd improve.
Another lesson came when I was tasked with painting a white sheet on a white background. Teachers can be cruel, but they also teach valuable lessons.
Completing the 12-week course gave me the confidence to paint independently. Each week, I'd display my paintings on the fridge, a silly gesture reminiscent of my childhood. But it also became my personal gallery, a test of my progress. Visitors' inquiries about my paintings no longer made me cringe; instead, they encouraged me. It's character-building, a testament to my growth as an artist. I believe Vincent would approve of my journey, struggles, and all.
