Last weekend I went to a little art workshop in a neighboring neighborhood. It was a free gathering on a Sunday morning organized by neighbors, for neighbors. They had invited experts on the subject subsidized by the governing bodies that support initiatives like this in our adorable little corner of the world. A place where we can sometimes still momentarily tune out the physical and metaphysical fires raging around our planet. Wherever you find a pocket in which it is still possible to engage in making art, and music, and love, freely, please do so.
The flyer for this event was shown to me a week prior, and announced an ink drawing workshop in Chinese style. I was immediately enthused by the idea. Remembering the excitement I felt when my friend Anni showed me her collection of ink bottles in her cozy apartment in Philadelphia two years ago. How it sparked a series of ink drawings at the time. How I’ve been missing the colors – having been somewhat blocked from drawing. How I could definitely use the inspiration… I have learned to follow that type of enthusiasm with swift action, otherwise, I know, it evaporates and nothing happens. So I signed up on the spot, and wrote it on my calendar as a real appointment. An importance.
The workshop started outside in a quaint community garden between two apartment buildings, a green oasis maintained by the residents themselves. But right after the introduction and instructions it began to rain. It rained for the first time in many weeks. Which was both immensely joyful for all the super thirsty green around us, and slightly inconvenient for our plans with ink and paper. The organizer said: Eeehm… Well… We can all go into my living room? We might have some trouble fitting in with a group of 20 people, but, we can try…
Tables and supplies were carried up several flights of stairs, furniture was rearranged, the resident pet bunnies took to hiding underneath a table in the corner of the room. Once all the tables were covered in protective plastic, we finally took our brushes and began to draw. Some carelessly, some excited, some familiar with the material, some apprehensive, unsure of how to start. The rice paper drank in the colors. The water bowls turned black from the ink’s potency.
I sat next to the only man in the group of participants. Dragged along to the event by his partner. He immediately struck me as an intense personality. Talking about art and political affiliations. How there was a study about politically right leaning men preferring leftist women. He repeated that he, too, was on the right of the political spectrum, but that he surrounded himself with leftist friends. He said it made sense for conservative men to be attracted to liberal and progressive women because the qualities of the left fit better with feminine values. He said he had studied philosophy. And from the way he was handling the ink, it was clear that he was an artist. I listened calmly, somewhat intrigued, but decided that I was there to engage with the brushes and the ink – not to argue politics with someone who was clearly interested in triggering progressive women to passionately debate him. In my mind I thought… Why in the fuck would men be attracted to women with leftist values, and then proceed to uphold values that structurally diminish and oppress the very same women they claim to love? Make it make sense to me, mister manbrain! But I kept the energy to myself.
We were told about the significance of Chinese ink drawings. And how the painting of koi fish was seen, for thousands of years, as a spiritual practice. The act of painting opens the portal to a meditative state, as it requires flow and an empty mind to follow the brush in an organic stroke. The koi themselves hold symbolic meaning in Chinese culture as well; they are believed to bring about prosperity and abundance, a symbol of perseverance and overcoming life’s obstacles.
There was one printed paper on our table with examples of how to build the traditional drawings with different brush strokes. The printer ink had disintegrated in a psychedelic array of colors by the raindrops outside, but you could still see the basic outlines of the images. I felt drawn to the image of the koi fish and used a piece of rice paper to see what I could muster. I drew one. Thought it looked cool. Decided it needed company. Drew a second. The Chinese ink has a slightly shimmering quality and the colors are incredibly vivid. Now there were two fishes on the sheet surrounded by empty space.
The man next to me commented that he really liked the fish I made. Those are good, he said. I agreed, yeah, I like them too. I found some green ink, and, since I love green so much, mindlessly added some awkward looking water plants around the koi. Hmmm… Not quite it. I looked at the work of the others around me, all the different styles illuminating our different personalities on paper. The man next to me had made a pretty awesome piece with wild colors and lines, bright red and yellow, totally in his own style. I took another paper and played around with the ink colors to see what they looked like, always in awe of the vibrancy of pigments. Some flowers emerged. Some organic shapes. Enjoying the quality of the ink and the peace of painting together with strangers on a Sunday. I walked away to refresh our water bowl. As I walked back I heard the man say to some of the women at our table: She ruined it. I didn’t think much of it, but registered the comment.
At the end of the workshop he nodded at me and said: Before you added that green, your koi were the best piece in this whole room, but you ruined it. I smiled. There was a time in my life where I would have taken such a remark as a deeply personal attack. Triggering a shame about a fundamental flaw, a lack of talent. But I shrugged my shoulders in a genuine neutrality, and said: Yup. Sometimes we ruin things. He had tried to add water on his colorful piece and I suppose it didn’t have the desired effect because he then proceeded to completely trash his paper with black ink. I sensed the sabotaging force of perfectionism in the act. Something I heard in the remarks of my fellow painters around our table throughout the workshop: Not good enough. I don’t know how to do this. This is ugly. I really don’t like what I made.
And it all sounded like a learned self-protection mechanism to ensure nobody else would be able to criticize or judge the work. They had already completely undermined their own effort before anyone else got a chance to say something potentially negative. And with that, they also undermined the possibility of simply enjoying the trying and failing and trying again of creative expression. I know how often I engage in that type of self-diminishing. Why is it so forbidden to be caught delighting in your own imperfection?
I went home on my bicycle through the welcome rain, hoping to keep my ink drawings mostly intact. At home I placed them on my table to dry. I looked at the koi and their awkward water plant surroundings, and thought of the man’s comment. He was correct. Slightly rude and abrasive – leave that to the Dutch – but not wrong. Although…
I took my own ink from the drawer. And a couple of totally wonky paintbrushes. Realizing I really ought to get some better paintbrushes… And maybe some real Chinese ink too… I filled a bowl with water and kept looking at the koi.
Ruined. Or. Unfinished?
I poured over the rice paper with blue liquid. Kept an aura of empty space around the fish. Submerged the wobbly green plants in dark blue depth. Kept adding more layers. And thought: I’m going to rescue these koi fishes. We can overcome the ruins of a failed attempt at a water plant.
Ruined is a relative stance. A false finality that doesn’t really belong to life. Or flow. Or creation. Ruined is the either/or fallacy of a masculine logic. Restoration is the both/and mentality of feminine creation power. A sense of accomplishment washed over me. And joy. And excitement with the idea of painting more weird fishes in the near future. A sensation that felt like a long awaited rain after a seemingly endless creative dry-spell.
Would I have felt compelled to continue saving the picture without this man’s unforgiving judgement?
I laugh, amused. Probably not… At least not with the same determination. I stick the koi on my wall. Perseverance, abundance, and prosperity: Welcome in.
Metaphysical Mulch 