Embarking on a classical painting course was an adventure that flipped my artistic world upside down. You see, my art used to be as flat as a pancake, lacking depth and that extra zing. But this course wasn’t just another notch on my artistic belt. It was a whole new paint palette, exploding with vibrant colors and endless possibilities.
I remember walking into the first class, hands trembling like I was about to defuse a bomb. There’s something oddly intimidating about a blank canvas and a set of ink brushes. But our instructor, a quirky man with a contagious laugh, made it feel like a playground. “There’s no right or wrong here, just happy accidents,” he’d say, trying to ease the tension with Bob Ross vibes.
The first lesson was about the fluidity of ink — how it dances across the canvas. Honestly, my initial attempts looked like a drunken spider web. I laughed it off, though, because what’s life without a bit of self-deprecating humor? Each stroke felt like uncharted territory, but slowly, I started to see a pattern, a rhythm.
One moment stays etched in my mind. We had to create a piece inspired by nature. The instructor handed us a bamboo brush and said, “Feel the bamboo.” I thought he was off his rocker. But as I closed my eyes and let the brush sway, I felt an odd connection. The ink spread like wild vines, forming shapes that felt almost deliberate. I’d stumbled upon a secret channel between my thoughts and my hands.
The aha moment? Aha! It came when we dabbled in layering techniques. My ink blossoms didn’t just sit on the surface; they popped, making it feel like you could pluck them right off. It was as if the canvas had transformed into a living garden.