It was a hot summer day and Isabel’s first time in my watercolor class. We were painting garden vegetables like zucchini, yellow squash, cucumbers, peppers, and tomatoes. The garden bounty was laid out on the table in front of all my nervous beginning watercolor students. After a few painting exercises we do to help them learn to use watercolors and start breathing again, because doing something new can truly be anxiety producing, it was time to let them loose and tackle painting their veggie of choice in a large loose “watercolory” fashion.
It is during this time in my classes that I put on some music. It helps soften the tension of a classroom full of strangers who are stressed to the gills trying out watercolors for the first time and at the same time sitting in silence while their inner critic screams and carries on. I usually choose something instrumental and uplifting – and it is usually classical.
Isabel’s eyes were red and tears were streaming down her cheeks when she asked me to please change the song. I could not move quick enough. I skipped to the next song, another student handed her a tissue and another a glass of water. She was embarrassed about her tears and the distraction she had caused in the class. She insisted she was alright and everybody get back to their paintings. I whispered, “I’ve cried in watercolor class before, it’s okay. I hope you’ll stay. The tears make it hard to see but don’t really mess with your painting. It IS watercolor.” I was so glad she stayed and kept working on her heirloom tomatoes. They were really good and she seemed to know what she was doing with watercolors. Clearly, she wasn’t the beginner she claimed to be.
It was after class I told her how I had cried in watercolor class once.
I had been painting on my own for about 4 years when I found this amazing watercolor teacher at the local arts organization in San Antonio. This teacher was amazing and I grew and learned so much under her instruction. It was because of her I started taking my watercolor painting a bit more seriously – trying harder subjects, painting bigger, using better materials, and pretty much painting all the time. I was having the “learning art” time of my life. Then one class I brought in a pot of geraniums. I wanted to paint the whole thing – all the ruffled leaves the big red ball like flowers. It was a big goal and I was feeling confident. And then about half way through I was overwhelmed. It was too much and I just started crying. Now, I am not sure those tears were only because I was struggling with my watercolor painting. I have struggled with many watercolors before and since and generally I get angry, not sad and in a puddle of tears. Looking back, I think that painting in so many ways just opened a part of me that I had been working hard to keep tucked away - not to look or even think about, my crumbling marriage. The enormity of painting that huge pot of geraniums overwhelmed me and I could not figure out how to paint it and I could not figure out how to fix my marriage. I don’t know how these two enormous challenges found their way to connect in my brain, but they did and here I was, a full-grown adult crying in watercolor class. It was embarrassing and even thought I was among friends; it didn’t make me feel any better. My teacher came along side me and helped me see how to break it down, one area at a time in bite size, paintable parts. Instead of seeing all that I had to paint, I focused on one grouping at a time – a cluster of leaves, one flower, the edge of the pot, and so on. And, it took a while, more than one class, but I finished the painting.
The painting turned out well. But not my marriage. Through the whole divorce process, which was overwhelming, I tackled it one bit at a time. This lesson learned in my special San Antonio watercolor class, a place that was supposed to be a refuge from the yuckiness of life, ended up showing up there as well. Many times I see people show up to art class in an effort to escape the pain of whatever is going on. Some people do escape. I often do. But sometimes the pain shows up when you least expect it -when you are creating, and attempting to make something beautiful.
After class, Isabel shared with me that her husband had recently passed. It was a surprise and sudden loss. She had been grieving for some time and she told me, she needed to “put a bra on and get out of the house.” The song that was playing in the background was her husband’s favorite. He was a celloist and played it often. All this beauty – the music, the art, the creative endeavor and all this pain – the grief of losing someone you loved and a life you once knew, just might come from the same place in our heart.
Isabel is still painting after all these years. Her work is amazing though she refuses to see it herself no matter how much I insist. My guess is that Isabelle finds more comfort and joy in the process than she does in the outcome.