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Paint It Up
It’s the third week of a six-week stint as painting teacher. I offered a class in Travelscapes.
I love my motley crew of 14. Six of them are bored suburban housewives whose gold bracelets drag across the paintings and mess up their work. There is a woman of my age who looks and acts like Christina Ricci. Two of the older men are very professional painters. I guess they just want to paint with other people because painting alone, being alone all of the time can make a person cringe out their life force. It seems as if the two have become friends, which is cool.
There is a guy, 30-something, that reminds me of Billy Baldwin. I just want to smash his face in, mostly because I detest everything about B.B. I know a teacher shouldn’t be like that, but I am.
I love the 17-year-old dude. He would rather be off doing off-the-wall cartoons. He is very funny. He understands my Art Brut stuff, and he makes me laugh like a loon.
And the other three women, well they are a clique of decorative painters, the rosemaling kind, the kind who do little Santa’s, the boring kind. They were friends that signed up together, they cluck a samesong tune, and don’t let the others in.
In this class, unlike my earlier ones, I am showing the students how to turn a vacation photo into a painting…kinda like the desertscape above. Don’t you love those penis erectus cacti?! And it is all done with a palette knife!
I am learning too…as always.
I see how the men are much more eager to ask many questions initially. They take their work very seriously.
The women worry that the painter next to them is doing a better job. I tell them that this isn’t a competition; it is about unearthing their talent to make a statement. Let your voice be heard. Sometimes that works.
I find that the men are far more confident with their premier designs and with the finished product. They don’t ask if the design is right. They are concerned if the stroke is right, and once they get the thumbs up, they get moving.
The women on the other hand want to slavishly copy the painting I brought in. UGH! This is making me dislike women. I want to stick them in the ass with a barbeque skewer and say WAKE UP!
The 17-year-old is my star pupil. I bring in things for him to see. I bring in odd papers and pens and glues and stuff. I am opening up his already awakened mind. Hello.
