Amy and I are taking an oil painting class on Monday nights, and I loooooooove it. The class had a rocky start (in retrospect, it was probably just wounded pride), but tonight I came around.
Perhaps not unfairly, Amy declared right off that our teacher was an embittered member of the Menopausal Mafia. An astounding conclusion, I thought, given the brief period of time we had been exposed to the woman (five or ten minutes) and the limited fodder she had to reach this verdict (age/physical appearance (slightly hippie-ish), open windows despite it being January, lengthy and confusing description--interrupted by frustrated sighs--of how to properly fill in a color wheel).
The class members--about ten of us--had silently segregated ourselves as we filed in (roughly according to child-bearing status, some might maintain). Within ten minutes of Amy's declaration re our teacher's connections to a certain underground society, all the women at the table next to us began talking about menopause (a conversation, by the way, that lasted through the entire three hour class). I looked at Amy in awe. She pointedly ignored me, pursed her lips, raised an eyebrow ever-so-slightly, and continued to fill in the primary colors with her usual care.
I had filled in the primary colors. I moved on to the secondary colors. Having created a lovely orange, I began mixing yellow into it so as to fill in the tertiary yellow-orange hue. “No. No no no no no.” Susan was standing behind me. “You cannot do the tertiary colors until you have completed the secondary colors.”
“But I just thought I’d use up this orange while it was still freshly mixed.”
“No.” She said. “That’s not an efficient way to go about it. It’s more efficient to do all of the secondary colors and then fill in the tertiary colors.”
Efficient?! Was this woman
mad? Lady, I bill my time. I know about efficiency. And I can tell you it is a hell of a lot more efficient to dispatch all of the orange before moving on to my greens! The room is too small to grumble to Amy without being heard. Amy knows about efficiency, too. Her brush strokes have become...terse. I duck my head and mutter to myself. Now, I understand if she wants us to learn about the secondary colors before moving on to the tertiary colors. That’s fine, but this efficiency business is a pile of shit.
I start painting outside the lines a little bit.
I shouldn’t be so angry. It’s Community Ed, for chrissakes. But my job is stressful, I feel like a total idiot every single day, and I was actually delighted to see that the first assignment in this beginning oil painting class was to fill in a color wheel. Here is something I could do! I could mix these paints like a pro and focus on painting within the line without feeling like a dope. I don’t have to slink off when I'm done and hide in my office waiting for a phone call asking where I got my law degree and suggesting that I pack my bags because I have managed to conceal my idiocy long enough and now I have been found out. No, I could take my time, mix the colors, paint within the lines, and complete the entire project that very evening.
We got in trouble for making our water dirty.
I glanced across the table at Rachel, I think her name was. There were four of us at the table, we did not learn each other’s names or bother to learn anything about each other. It was a sort of silent pact, like we were at war, and to learn names would only make things more difficult for all of us. We did not know if we would be back. No ties, it would be easier this way. We could hear Susan praising the members of the Menopausal Mafia at the next table. They were showing off their recent projects. We cast annoyed looks at each other. It was clear that this was not their first Community Ed class, and certainly not their first painting class. This class was merely an elaborate front for their little organization. They apparently had some extra time on their hands now that they no longer needed to deal with the blood flowing from their loins each month. We certainly did not appreciate their advanced level of skill. Our brush strokes became sloppier, our brows furrowed-er.
We finished our color wheels. We were instructed to select a dried leaf from the table, and to paint it. This was a project designed to help us figure out problems with color, to learn to mix and duplicate colors. Susan walked around the room, saying, “Art is like math. It’s all about figuring out problems.” I had no idea what she was talking about. I picked a leaf that was mostly red, thinking it would be easier. It was not easier. I was making a mess. I could not duplicate the leaf. My painting was getting thicker and thicker as I piled on more paint in my attempt to duplicate the leaf. It’s fair to say I was already crabby when Susan stepped behind me.
She pointed at the color I was mixing, and she pointed at the color on the leaf I was attempting to match. “Is it closer to this color”—she gestured toward the red—“or this color?”—she gestured toward the yellow. I grunted or something. “Art is like math. It’s all about figuring out problems.” I grunted again. Art is NOT like math. And this project is annoying.
We had been using water-based paints to do these color projects. Rachel or whatever her name was had decided she was going to start using her oils. Susan told her to go ahead. Rachel or whatever her name was said she didn’t know what to do; she didn’t know what the different liquid things--turpentine, lineseed oil--were for. But Susan had moved on to praise some piece of artwork that a member of the Menopausal Mafia was showing off. I thought it looked like crap. Rachel or whatever her name was surveyed her various implements in confusion and said, “Glad I took a
beginning oil painting class.” Amy and I discussed where we might get a beer after class.
I moved onto a third project, a black-and-white rendition of some famous piece I should know but don’t. The lesson here is to begin with the general, and then fill in the specific. I begin filling the page with blobs of gray, I start moving my brush in swirly patterns to make the gray more interesting. I am going for an impressionist feel. I can hear Susan walking around the room, giving people encouragement. “There are no rules,” she would say. “This is all about expressing yourself.” She was behind me again. “No no no,” she said. “You need to do the general before the specific. Fill in these general areas first”—she gestured toward patches of gray—“and then put in the details.” I nodded. She walked on to someone else, who must have asked a question, to which she responded: “There are no rules. This is all about expressing herself.” I slap at the canvas with my brush. No. Rules.
On her next pass, she picked up the leaf that Amy had painted and showed it off to the class as an example of exemplary work.
She expressed polite surprise that my piece resembled in some ways the masterpiece I was attempting to copy.
Amy and I cleaned up early and headed to Pizza Luce for garlicky food and beers. Amy decided that she did not dislike our teacher. I reminded her of the cold hard facts: we were scolded for having dirty water. We vaguely discussed not returning the following week. Our main complaint was a perceived lack of direction since we had no syllabus and Rachel or whatever her name was was not provided any instruction on how to work with her oil paints which was supposedly the purpose of the class. We ordered another round of drinks.
So... We returned for the second class tonight. After all, we had spent a hefty sum on the supplies. I gave myself a lecture during the entire drive down to the class. I reminded myself of the importance of having a positive attitude and how difficult it is to shake a poisonous attitude once it sets in; I should give people a second chance; I should be grateful to get honest feedback; I was probably just being crabby because I didn't have any skills and she had pointed it out.
And tonight's class
was better. She was not as annoying as she was last week. She gave a helpful lesson in using oils. She dispensed useful advice. She was encouraging and her corrections were not grating.
But perhaps most importantly: I am not impervious to flattery.
Tonight, she showed off my painting to the class. Yup, that's right, my friends. Your ol' pal UJ did a fine job laying her colors.
Amy could see that I was feeling smug about having my painting shown off. She leaned over and asked permission to not hate the teacher anymore. Feeling like the head mean girl at the eighth grade lunch table, I granted us permission to like the teacher.
