Tuesday was a wet one, and it all began. Our “paintbrush prodigy,” Claire, was holding pastel boxes from the discount bin. Whispers in art circles: “Harmonious Pastels,” they would mutter, with a knowing shake of the head. “You’ll smear everything. You will mix until your fingers drop off. Claire waved, nevertheless, and registered for a pastel painting course anyhow. Someone somewhere had to have cracked the code, she thought.
The first hour is laughedable. Her drawing resembled a smudgy payback note. Second hour? Still hopeless, yet maybe with the smallest gleam. About her twentieth sketch, something clicked somewhere. She began playing instead than attempting to “paint right”. Giants in berets groan at lighthearted exploration. Claire laughed and put neon pink in there.
The secret that so many pastel artists hide with dragonish fervor—layering. not level blocks. Not monotonous environments. Layer upon layer, give light touches, lift as necessary with a kneaded eraser. The course repeatedly hammered this point of emphasis. Patience, not pressure, brought greater depth. Claire knew from away her teacher was both a color wizard and a part cheerleader. Error? They turned into inspiring lightning bolts.
Permission to get messy was half the battle. Her dog trailed a paw over a half-finished scene one day. Catastrophe? No one. She rendered it into a field of wildflowers. Happy accidents, as Bob Ross aficionados would have it, became second nature to her tool set. Not from the tip, she observed shade and highlights emerge from the side of the stick. She discovered the “feel” of it, much as one learns from working butter into flour.
Older artists snorted at her Instagram photos. One mumbled, “cheating,” then noticed her time-lapse films. Claire, though, had no interest anymore. She discovered a beat. She revealed her technique, mistakes and all, and then dozens of fresh artists—folks reluctant to try—reached out. Some messaged only to joke about paint all over the place. Every poor effort was another brick building her skillful palace.
She ultimately painted her childhood dog among the thick boughs of an imagined willow tree, which really won her over. It hung in her kitchen crooked. All those wild, conflicting colors shimmered together, though, as the light caught the image exactly. She did not find that in a how-to book a trick like that. That’s all effort, happiness, and a decent teacher with chalk dust on his shoes.
So, should you come upon a fresh pastel picture featuring a stray fingerprint or too much yellow? Perhaps you should roll your eyes slowly rather quickly. Someone had fun in the process and just outwitted a hundred unhappy detractors. Sometimes genius is only disguised stubbornness.