Why I Like Watercolors

I have mentioned before that the artist in me didn’t blossom until late in life.  Wait.  Shouldn’t “artist” be in quotes.  Oh, yeah, that’s better.

Could I have been turned off by my father dragging me to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where I had to climb all those stairs with my chubby little legs? I think he brought me there starting when I was five.  He would drag me to paintings and explain certain things about them that I thought were irrelevant, like one hand open/one had a fist—a painting of a certain cardinal.  Did I care?  No.

Then there was art in elementary school, where Mr. Schubert could never quite understand where I was going with my projects.  Somehow my work was never displayed for parent/teacher day.  Sadly, only my 100% spelling tests were up on the wall.  And I really can’t spell worth a damn.

My delve into art really started when I had a burning desire to make a floor cloth.  (Floor coverings before linoleum.) That’s when I discovered the joys of art camp—Snow Farm in Williamsburg, Massachusetts.

I took so many classes there and then a wonderful class at Arrowmont in Tennessee.  But I always came back to watercolor.

Now, at this point you probably see me as a prissy old lady.  Well, old, but definitely not prissy.  I will confess that I have no ability to do anything representational.  So I don’t do sweet little watercolors of boats docked along the pier or thatched cottages along a country lane.  I wish I could.  But I cannot reproduce anything lifelike.

So why watercolor?  Because it’s water with color.  I put the water down on the paper, sometimes a light wash, sometimes a drenching one, and just add color.  Then I let it flow.  And leave the room.

Sometimes it takes days for the paper to dry.  And then I go back in and rework it.  Maybe add more water, more paint.  Or since the paint is already heavy, I’ll just take a wet brush and extend what I already have.

I rarely use regular watercolor tubes, or pencils anymore.  Thanks to Arrowmont, I’ve discovered Dr. Martin’s watercolor concentrates.  And lately Dr. Martin’s Hydrus watercolors.  They are so rich and joyful.  I also practice dropping white Hydrus watercolor onto dark colors and watching what happens next.  It’s like a moving feast of delight.  I do try to make sure it doesn’t turn into mud.  That’s when white really comes in handy.

I wish I could find some sort of group with which to share my bliss.  I did try joining a watercolor group at the local senior center.  But it was—basically awful.  Not for them.  For me.  In good weather, they paint outside in someone’s garden.  I have no idea how I could do this as I need to change water frequently.  I like a clean brush.

In the winter months, they move inside and paint still lives, like tea cups.  Have I mentioned that I can’t do anything representational?  And if I could, it wouldn’t be tea cups.

We do have a local art center that gives classes.  But if they gave one in watercolor, what would I learn?  Except that I can’t paint still lives.  And let’s face it, sometimes classes kill the joy.  Amateurs don’t have to be professional to relish what they’re doing.

Of course not everything I “paint” turns out.  In fact, at least 60% actually sucks.  But I never give up.  If something lacks cohesion, I pick up my Prismacolor markers and make a character out of it.  Sometimes a human face, sometimes an animal face or entire body.

If that doesn’t work, there’s always collage.  What is more fun than cutting up worthless pieces and melding them together into something—maybe wonderful.  And why is glue so hard to get out of those plastic bottles.

After working on my “art,” I feel a senes of peace.  Or a sense of agitation if it truly totally sucks.  But I never give up.  There’s always another piece of paper and combinations of colors with which even a rainbow would be amazed.  Or maybe shocked?