The Fledgling Artiste
My First Drawing Class

by Julie Russell Beebe

in issue four
Scintillations
Purple Bikini
Saraswati
Change In Air
Sarah's Gift
Fairy Chimes
Real Dreams
Xena
Writer?
Younger Self
Fledgling Artiste
Goddess Poetry
No McD's In Cuba
AF Photographers
Goddess On Phone
Moody Girl
Met The Goddess
To My Mother
Life Changing Books
Girl Crushes
Universe Spoke
Visualize This!
Contributors

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future issues
Issue Five: Bravery
Issue Six: Friendship

previous issues
Issue One: Change
Issue Two: Balance
Issue Three: Spring

I am not sure why I wanted to give art another chance after a two-decade lapse.  Perhaps I could feel my creativity struggling for a visual way to express itself.

I had given up on art after eighth grade.  I tried to create original masterpieces in my junior-high school art class but struggled to come up with my own ideas.  My art teacher gave assignments and would hand me her ideas to create instead of allowing me find my own.  One miserable assignment comes to mind: We were to illustrate a word.  I couldn't think of one in a time span that satisfied her, so she said to draw "entomb".  Entomb?  Why did she hand a precarious thirteen-year-old a word like entomb?  Then to make it worse, she told me how to draw it, with the “tomb” part of the word sinking below "en".  Always so compliant, I did as I was told and then entombed my fledgling artist spirit at the end of that school year.  I figured I’d be good at other things like math and English instead of art.  I didn’t feel bad about this; I just thought if I was supposed to be an artist it would come easily. 

I am certain that my art teacher didn’t intend to be mean.  She liked me.  I think it pained her to see me struggle and would hand me her ideas instead of letting me find my own way.   Art came easily to her, so I can only guess she thought this was the best way to teach – by giving out her ideas to her struggling students. She didn’t know how to teach me to be patient with the creative process and to get my fears out of the way.  She wasn’t a bad teacher, just an ordinary one.

I struggle to delineate between good, ordinary, and bad teachers. The ordinary teachers often look like good ones.  The bad ones pretend to be good teachers, but are often so deeply wounded that it interferes with their ability to teach.

To get back into art I chose a low-commitment first step:  a one-day, three-hour drawing class.  It was time to be brave and test-drive a new teacher. 

As I walked in the classroom, a sprite disguised as an Asian woman named Karen beckoned to me.  "Sign in please, welcome!"  Her positive energy filled the room, literally sweeping away my fears.  "Any problem finding art supplies?" she sang.  I was surprised to discover she was our teacher.  She seemed too happy to be teaching art.

Over those three hours, Karen led the class through twenty drawing exercises.  She was always one step ahead of my inner critic (who looked suspiciously like my eighth grade art teacher).  I drew the cups and vases on the table before me using charcoal sticks.  I drew with my right hand, left hand, and even BOTH hands!  Realizing my non-dominant left hand had hidden talent delighted me!  

Karen told us to break our charcoal sticks in half and all the inner critics in the class screamed en masse.  “Not me?”  I asked, looking at the brand new 3-inch compressed charcoal stick.  “Yes,” she responded without hesitating, ignoring the inner critic screams. 

I darkened images until my hands were covered in charcoal dust.  I felt like a kindergartener – delighted with the mess!  I timidly, then fearlessly, drew without looking at the paper and then drew without looking at the object.  Karen paused us frequently to display and admire each other’s work.  I followed along with the exercises, becoming more detached from the noise my inner critic was making.  It became easier and easier to let go and allow the process to happen to me. 

I discovered I am an artist and so is everyone else.

I was disappointed when Karen announced the last drawing exercise with thirty minutes left of the class.  It felt like minutes had passed – not hours. 

For the last drawing she moved objects around on the table as we drew.  I’d never tried to draw moving objects before!  I was scared and excited simultaneously.  "Layer the drawings on top of each other on the same paper.  Add a color or two," she said.  "Draw on top of the other drawing." 

By this point my inner critic had given up.  The person beneath my inner critic was delighted. 

I looked up at the basket of apples.  I didn’t see apples - I saw round shapes and shades of light and dark.  I was in the midst of drawing apples when Karen moved a vase in front of where I was drawing apples.  I felt momentary irritation that immediately gave way to amusement and thought “Okay, let's see what we can do with that!”  Then an apple moved briefly to the front of where I was drawing.  I felt no irritation.  I liked it there and immortalized it on my page.  I added purple, liking the depth it added to the black and white page. 

"Time."  Karen said.  Already?

My thoughts were racing excitedly: “I did that???  I did that!!!  Damn!  That looks good!”   I could feel the thirteen-year-old fledgling artist within me waking up from her deep entombed sleep.  To my utter surprise, I had transitioned from a fraidy-cat fledgling that listened to her critic to a confident artiste in three hours! 

I didn’t consciously think, “Karen is a good teacher” until weeks after the class.  What I do know was the second I got home I raced around the house looking for unusual shaped objects and picked up the charcoal and spent the evening drawing pears, cups, and vases.  Drawing suddenly became immensely intriguing and satisfying to me.

I have to admit that in the six months since I took Karen’s class I lost the initial enchantment as life has paraded in with its medley of ups and downs.  But as I write this now I am remembering where I left my charcoal, and I know a drawing pad waits for me in my office.  My inner artiste can hear them calling.