Watercolors

Some times I can’t explain myself. Thankfully, I don’t have to explain or account for any criminal activities. Mostly, just weird stuff. Mostly, my adventures. For example, there is my trip to the base of Mount Everest. I hate cold. Why would I want to lie on the ground in a sleeping bag with a complete stranger and two hot water bottles only to wake up in the middle of the night when it is 8 degrees outside (and inside for that matter) with the urge to go to the bathroom? It is tough to satisfactorily offer an explanation. Because I wanted to see the mountain? Does that explain it?

Can I offer a rationale explanation for my desire to stand foot to paw and eye to eye with a cat so huge it would not hesitate to kill me if given the remotest chance? One day I want to see a tiger in such a way it scares the life out of me. And not get eaten.

But as I get older, my undertakings have become less hazardous. Still they are no easier to explain. So I wanted to re-learn how to watercolor. I say relearn because I once knew. In high school I took every class Mr. Izzo, the art teacher, offered. After he died one spring afternoon during school, there was Mr. McD. I can’t remember his full name. Never liked him. Another teacher couldn’t replace Mr. Izzo. Or maybe I didn’t like him because he was the only teacher who put me in detention. My crime: spraying another student with a water hose. Such a juvenile delinquent I was.

Anyway, I debated about signing up for a four day watercolor class. Besides the cost of the instruction, there was a list of supplies to purchase. Have you priced a watercolor paintbrush? Or 140 pound cold press paper? Paints? Everything is expensive. As a housepainter I know the importance of quality paint and brushes. To skimp on either will make a job tough. Same goes for artists’ materials. But all you can find on this island is crap at Ace Hardware. So I went to class with crap.

I was nervous and tried not to have expectations that soared too high. I didn’t expect masterpieces to be flow off the paper, but I did expect something more than a refrigerator painting. I once was pretty good. But watercolor wasn’t something that stuck like bicycle riding.

The class was small. All retired old ladies and one retired old guy who disappeared after the second class. Every one of the eight students knew each other. They knew the instructor. And there I was. I didn’t even know how to mix my paints without contaminating the primary colors. Nervousness turned into intimidation as we started our beach scenes. We were suppose to bring pictures. I had no pictures. The instructor showed me how to make puddles.

The instructor, Annabel Spielman, was very patient. She loved my naïve and curious questions. She explained wet on wet and wet on dry techniques and other nuances in her lovely British accent. She described elements and composition as "episodes". And she had a technique she called a “happy accident”, and if she like something it was “delicious”. My stuff was too delicious.

At the end of the first day I was very frustrated. If I hadn’t paid $200 I probably would not have gone back. My head hurt. My beach scene looked tormented. My palm tree neglected and my ocean polluted. I did have what I thought was one nice puffy white cloud hanging in the sky. The next day I woke and went to class with a head ache.

Noticing my inferior materials Annabel gave me a pallet of paints, two good brushes and a block of paper. She must have seen some talent worth investing in. She suggested I try my beach scene again. Same painting, superior materials. A better result even though I have yet to finish this painting.

The class moved on. I practiced making palm trees. On the second day we dove under the water to paint fish. I have little interest in painting fish, but then I had little interest in painting palm trees on the beach.

So why was I in this class? I hated watercolors in high school. I drifted toward acrylics. Maybe it was to reclaim the media. After the first day there seemed to be slim chance of this happening. But once upon a time I fell in love with an artist named Byron Birdsall. I was in the army stationed in Anchorage and saw his work in a local gallery. That was watercolor. On my measly army pay I purchased two of his paintings. At the time nearly two months worth of military pay. Years and years later, after one of the painting “foxed”, a moldy appearance to the paper, I contacted him. He explained that back then he was still a starving artist using cheap materials. But his paintings come with a lifetime guarantee. He redid the painting, mounted it next to the original and sent it back to me, insured for far more than I ever paid for it.

In class, I was determined to get one painting worth hanging on the refrigerator. Any time I approached something with shaky hand or too much speed I talked to God. For Your glory God, steady my hand and slow me down. Oh, to paint with the talent, technique and discipline. I have a little bit of each, but a wealth of none.

Today was the last class. I got that refrigerator painting. I sort of like it. I’ll invest in some worthy supplies because I want to paint a picture to hang on the wall over the dining room table. Something Mom would love. Except now I know that I need one huge ass piece of paper. No canvass. My brushes should last a lifetime.