The Retartist.
Retarded, plus artist. Retartist. That's me.
I am taking a painting course at a small, local studio in North Beach. It is Beginning Acrylic Painting, an eight-session course. We have completed two sessions thus far. It may be early, but I think it's sufficiently late to determine that whatever artistic ability I had in middle school has been severely compromised by the cookie-cutter, code-monkey job I have and the extensive left-brain training I endured at MIT. Symptoms include looking at individual parts and characteristics of a subject instead of the whole subject, excessive worry about the nature of details, and attention to the last points given in class, and only the last points given in class. I guess I just need to practice, is all. Get a feel for what works and what doesn't-- intuition, the right-brain stuff.
At least the teacher seems nice. Although, I can't tell if his comments are more words of encouragement, or that he is so dumbfounded by my utter incompetence that he is unable to muster anything else. I'm hard at work at the drawing board, and he'll look over my shoulder, saying:
T: "Great."
Encouraging Interpretation: "This is starting to look like an actual painting."
Probable Interpretation: "I almost feel guilty taking your money for this class."
T: "I like how this has an abstract style."
EI: "You are drawing stylistically, as opposed to photographically."
PI: "That looks more like a chicken nugget than a leaf."
T: "I really like your use of color here."
EI: "You are exercising your newfound knowledge of color balance and the value range."
PI: "Are you colorblind or stupid? You've gotta be at least one. My money's on stupid."
T: "Maybe you want to touch up this part of the painting."
EI: "I like the other sections, and working on this section would balance the piece."
PI: "If Bob Ross were alive, he'd happy-little-cloud you to death."
So, we move from pastels to actual paint next week, so if I've learned anything in these last two weeks, it's that not only will my painting look like the desperate smearing of a dyslexic five year-old, but I'll get some in my eye. But hey. At least I'm having fun. And not drinking. And leaving work early on Mondays. And that's more than enough for me.
