A few months back, I used to wake up every morning to lukewarm coffee, gloom scrolling, and questioning whether creative people actually had jobs and bills. Achy fingertips, you know what I’m talking about? That need to create? Mine was vicious; it would nibble at me whenever I saw a beautiful rainbow of colors on the internet. The local arts center offered award winning pastel painting course and I finally gave in and enrolled. Never worked with pastels other than for drawing on paper as a kid. In kindergarten, I was famous for making landscapes out of crayons—if you can call drawings of shaky trees that constitute “landscapes.”
I messed up every single thing in first class. Due of my awkward grasp, the pastels fell apart. In their agitated state, my sunflowers resembled sea urchins. Helen, my teacher, talked me out of my funk. “Making a mess is art. Embrace the chaos,” she encouraged, her cheeks freckled with turquoise. A light bulb went off. As I watched others around me smudged and erased, I realized that mistakes were now opportunities, not setbacks. It was exhilarating and fulfilling all at once.
My artwork progressed from lifeless fruit bowls to dramatic, foreboding sky week after week. In the third unit, I had my “aha!” moment. I ignited my sunset by inadvertently dusting magenta into the sky. I was elated by that single painting. I took a picture and posted it online as a joke, nothing more. “I will compensate you for a print!” my friend texted. I assumed she was playing a practical joke on me at first. She ain’t. More friends and even strangers started reaching out after that, setting off an unbelievable chain reaction. A cat portrait was even requested (feline whiskers are more complex than they appear).
That was just the beginning. I became a member of a pop-up market within my area. An older man with wildly arched eyebrows was my first customer, and he stared at my piece “Storm Over Dandelion Town” for what seemed like an eternity. “Conjures up images of a dream,” he remarked. He made an immediate purchase. What a joyful and honest experience it is to hear how your daring color experiments resonate with someone else’s imagination. That conversation set my heart ablaze.
The intention was never to sell my artwork. However, it’s like if sending a note to the universe and receiving a reply with each purchase; it validates me. I have to pinch myself every now and then. Unfortunately, pastels aren’t a panacea. I still haven’t found my inner peace, and the house is a complete disaster. However, I would rather not have smudged paint on my hands than the spotless house on the block.
Mistakes are inevitable for those who sit at home with their sketchbooks closed, pondering whether art is truly their calling. Trace an object. Even if you’re confused about which end of a pastel to use, enroll in the class nevertheless. Finding something even greater than perfection—maybe even a side hustle—could be your lucky break. Or, if you’re anything like me, a cause to jump for joy upon waking up and seek for that initial stick of color even before your coffee has cooled.