Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.
— William Shakespeare, “Measure for Measure”
I’m sitting in my office. Behind me is my jury-rigged drafting table. This has gone through many iterations and re-dos. Today, it comprises a worktable, the leaf from an old gateleg table (attached to the front with hinges), a random block of cedar (to prop up the far edge and create a slope), and two thin strips of basswood clamped near the bottom edge of the slope with spring clamps (to keep the art-board with paper from sliding off the slope). On the bookshelf beyond rests one pint glass with brushes, and another with a palette knife, toothbrush, and other tools. A makeshift collection of drawers sits to one side, with various media, drawing implements, pastels, tubes of paint, sponges, and miscellany. To the other side is a small shelf with tape rolls, paper towels, tissues, and rags. The bookshelf holds a variety of thick cotton papers, in rolls or pads or blocks. In the closet is more paper, in a portfolio, to accommodate their large size. All of these items have been moved around at least three times, and modified (and sometimes unmodified) in several ways.
This spring, after a brief flurry of initial activity and experimentation with watercolors, I had to stop as the pain in my dominant hand was too much and my control with it was too weak to use it for painting. Then I had to wait until autumn for the surgery that would eliminate the problem. And now, after months away, I am approaching watercolors again. I have, however, been procrastinating, focusing on the studio furnishings and painting paraphernalia than with actually putting pigment on cotton. I’ve been crab-walking around the activity for weeks, thinking about restarting, but always finding something else that needed my attention.
Why? Because now I know how hard this is. Now I have seen the expertise required to paint what I want to paint.
And I doubt—
Aye, there’s the rub. I doubt that I will be able to develop the requisite skill set, so I’m using this predetermined outcome to fashion sufficient justification not to start in the first place.
Self-sabotage. Vicious cycle.
Then, about a week ago I realized, I’ve been here before, and I’ve gotten through it, with writing, with poetry, with music, with watch repair. But how? How did I get through it? I didn’t take notes. For the past few days I’ve been letting those questions steep, and today an answer arrived: Change the goal.
It’s easy to see, in retrospect. I simply aimed too far, like “over the horizon” far. That’s daunting (on a good day), and can overwhelm you with its seeming impossibility. So I need to change the goal, rein in the target. Maybe I can achieve enough skill to paint in a looser style, or with abstract designs. Let’s rein it in more. I could just paint small things in isolation—elements of a scene—rather than a big complex landscape. Or even further. How does watercolor pigment work on this brand of paper versus that, when the paper is damp versus dry, with the table flat versus sloped?
I am almost there in the process. I’m still reining it in, but I actually picked up a brush yesterday, and today I reviewed some tutorials to remind me of what is possible.
Baby steps.
k
PS. Special thanks to Dame Sarah Spring, who shone a bright light on the quotation above, which made me rethink many things.
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