Portrait of the Writer as an Artist

 Art was my least favourite subject at school.  I think I despised it more than maths.  At least I could once in a while get a sum right or understand a concept, but in Art I seemed doomed to be forever terrible with no redeeming factors.

                When I was ten, I had a bully of a teacher called Mark Lewis.  He was a perfectionist and everything, including his pupils’ work, he saw as an extension of himself and, therefore, if it wasn’t right, he would throw a fit until it was corrected.

                One day in Art, he was showing us how to draw trees.  I have an absolutely perfect memory of the tree, a black silhouette against a dark blue sky.  As usual, I was struggling to make my tree look recognisable as such.  I had painted over it so much, the paper itself began to wear away.  He grabbed my painting, my paintbrush and me and hauled us all outside.

                ‘Look, look at the tree!’ he shouted.  ‘Where do you see branches like this? Where?’

                He took my paintbrush and drew his own tree on the paper.

                ‘See?’ he said to me, exasperated.  ‘This is what a tree looks like.’

When I took the painting home, my mum thought it was great and stuck it on my bedroom wall.  I hated it.  Every morning, it was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes.  One day, I got up and ripped it up.

                At secondary school, Art was only taken seriously if you were to go on and study it for public exams. Otherwise, you were left to paint endless bowls of fruit and for this I was truly grateful.

                Although I had long ago accepted that I was not an artist, over the last few years, I increasingly had the urge to capture a certain scene.  Photographs don’t always get the right light or have the same feel as what I wish to see. I have often wished I could just whip a notebook and pencil out and sketch a scene.

                I saw a couple of online courses advertised on social media but, whilst they looked tempting, I must say I am quite old-fashioned, and online and I don’t really go together. So, when I saw a life drawing class advertised at the National Art Gallery, I jumped at the chance to attend.

                Well, hold on a minute.  ‘Jumped at the chance’ is probably not the best way of describing it.  I was intrigued, but nervous; keen, but apprehensive.  In my head was Mr Lewis and the tree.  Would I be hauled outside to look at passers-by?  Would I be ridiculed in front of the class?  I imagined all these beret-wearing artists peeping at my work and trying not to laugh or, conversely, trying not to cry.

                When I told my family what I planned to do, there was that unmistakeable exchange of looks that suggested ‘she’s lost it completely this time’.  I think they hoped it was a passing phase, a bit like my plan to run around the block four times every day to get fit. Or maybe it was what it seemed – a joke.

                I’ll give them credit though, when I did set off for my first class, they were all very encouraging.  ‘I’ll probably draw a stick man,’ I said as I walked out the door.  ‘We love your stick men,’ they shouted after me.  ‘Your stick men are the best.’

                I don’t know how many times I hesitated and thought of turning back.  When I finally entered the room, my heart really did sink to see all these very artistic types with paint splattered aprons setting up their easels.  I quickly made it clear that I had no idea why I was there and that I had no artistic talent whatsoever. I thought if I declared this at the beginning, no one would have cause later on to ask me what on earth had brought me there.

                We did some warm-up exercises.  Draw the model for one minute, then three minutes, then five minutes.  Sketches with our left hands or without looking at the paper.  It was fun and it didn’t matter that the pictures were all over the place.  I could handle this.

                Eventually, we did a forty-minute picture, sketching the model with charcoal. I was a bit anxious, but I realised that I didn’t have to be perfect.  Everyone there did something different.  Each piece of work was definable as the work of a different artist.  I realised I needed to release the fear of imperfection and that it really was all right to do my own thing.  I didn’t look at anyone else’s work in progress because that wasn’t mine.

Here’s the thing: I was not the best, but I wasn’t terrible. I learnt how to use charcoal effectively and, looking at the work of others after each exercise, I was able to see what could be improved in mine. The first two main pictures that I did received cursory glances from my family and flippant remarks such as ‘well done’ or ‘that’s great’.  One was turned in different directions before it could be established what exactly it was, but the one I brought back on my third and final week elicited genuine praise.

What did I learn?  I learnt that it is good for teachers to get out of their comfort zones and be taught.  I learnt that authors need to get out of their comfort zones and realise that being creative is more important that being right, and that you can get better at doing something. I learnt, too, that we can release those ghosts, we can quiet that voice that tells you you can’t do it. You can do anything you want.  You don’t need validation.

As an adult, I realise my old teacher had issues of his own, battles that he was fighting within himself.  I don’t hate him; I don’t like him either – but I have let him go. Now the big question is - what next?  What about singing? I was also kicked out the choir.  Well, I fear that's more likely to raise ghosts rather than settle them!  Bollywood dancing? A handstand class? The list is endless.