Self Confidence and the Up Hill Climb of Learning a New Craft

My experience at the easel on Labor Day weekend nearly topped painting, an act that I've come to love after sixteen months of being new. You know that feeling... walking into a meeting where it seems everyone knows more than you?

Arriving at Fort Sheridan north of Chicago, a little after eight, I parked in the prime slot closest to the Lake Michigan.

No horizon came into view as I reached the path.  My friend Lynne who saw the same from a beach a mile up, told me later, "If we were being invaded by stealth ships, they would’ve had the advantage," ... an apt analogy for the scene of WWII artillery just to the right of where I'd set up my equipment.

For most of the past 60 weeks, I’ve visited this spot to capture in watercolor, the Lake, the waves, the sky, the clouds, the trees, the wind, the leaves, and the weeds, to learn about light, and shadows, and glare and seasons, the paper, paints and brushes. The fun, challenge and frustration of painting pleine air requires that the artist deals with scene changes as the earth rotates, the sun rises and lowers,  shadows appear, fall, deepen and shorten from side-to-side… even when it’s grey.

I started out in jeans, flip flops, a long sleeve blouse over a t-shirt and opted because of the grey and haze to leave my wide brimmed hat in the car. Promised rain didn’t materialize; the sun invaded the haze and within an hour I took off my over shirt and wished I had my hat.  I fought the desire to push on my sunglasses to battle the glare because they dull and tint the colors I wanted to capture.

No one came by while I assembled my easel, organized the tray holding brushes, and pigments, poured water into rubber-coated collapsible cup and sketched the scene I planned to watercolor on the 140-pound paper I taped to a board.

The pre-sketch is a new process for me. A teacher last year recommended it, but never did it himself. I decided I wanted to be that accomplished so I’d did as he did. However, over the year, I realized I am not that accomplished and I’ve learned my picture is more likely to turn out as I envision it, if I actually envision it. Duh!

Those sketches look like scribbles. I draw the loosest of shapes, dash lines across for a horizon which slowly comes into focus, and more shapes for trees and fences. The scribbles I've learned map lights and darks which create the better composition. More than once, after hours of painting onsite, returned home and added quick washes on the scribbles and liked that outcome best. No one is supposed to see them. 

A woman’s voice with a hint of Europe came from behind and startled me. “May I see your sketch?” I flashed the scribbles and closed the book. A camera dangled from her neck and a fanny pack surrounded her waist. We talked for nearly twenty minutes and in that time I learned about a different area I wanted to see in the Fort. She learned about my interest in facilitation and we both learned about each other’s writing and decided to exchange emails. Her name I learned is Emma. 

I finally got my paper and board affixed to the easel and a wash applied. Until recently I immediately painted objects into the scene. Reading my urban sketching books, watching You Tube videos and using my repeated visits to the Fort to test techniques, I better understand the value in staking out the scene, plus, preserve white on the page and put in a light wash of color, my renditions now show contrast. This is a huge improvement from paintings as recent as Memorial Day. 

 

A few minutes later, a family approached: Frank the dad, Kylee about four, Ellen in third grade and Grandma. Ellen, came over touched the board and asked if I was painting. 

It’s this kind of question that rocks my confidence that I am doing "it" right. I smiled, worried that maybe I was knitting and dementia is in full episode. I swallowed my sarcasm, humored her and asked if she liked to paint. She did. I asked if she would make a picture in my sketchbook. She agreed and I gave her a sketchbook, I carry for "Guest Artists" along with markers. Ellen set to work. Kylee straddled a razor scooter and drank from a glass bottle of Perrier, Grandma kept walking, and Frank held the markers and encouraged Ellen’s art.

I learned Frank recently registered Ellen for an after school painting class in Wilmette because she is good in that and math. I got a sense that Ellen runs their house. She demanded a different color from her dad, then asked politely for a pen from me, because she wanted to be more precise. She told me that though it looked like a man, the person she drew was a woman. I promised her that I’d remember. Her dad told me they were from China then spoke to his son in Chinese. Ellen signed her drawing, put the caps back on the markers and said good-bye. Her dad asked me if I had grand children and for my phone number. He wrote his number and email on the opposite page from Ellen’s drawing and asked that I call him when I returned there again. I remain confused by his intent and didn’t ask. As they left for the beach, Ellen said, “nin hao.”

Painting away, bikers rolled down hill to my left. The decline there is steep. Bikes sound like bees swarming as they whiz by. On the way back up, the riders sound like steam engines. More than once, I’ve said, “I think I can, I think I can” as they effort to pedal the incline. 

One couple returning from the beach got off their bikes to comment on my work. Empathy told me the wife-leader needed a rest. The laboring husband did too. They complimented the gobbledygook on my paper that minutes before a ten year old questioned its validity as a painting. Their (and several others) praise when my scene is without shape or definition confuses me too. I thank them for their encouragement, though in my eyes the painting at that phase is crap.  They got back on their bikes and I sprayed the paints with my little atomizer bottle to get back to work. 

Behind me, I heard two women discussing someone who disappointed the lady on the far side at a recent funeral. The person closest to me counseled, “People who don’t bother to come to a funeral, aren’t likely to want to do much more for you.” I thought that a bit closed minded but decided I didn’t need to get into the conversation. 

Several people walked by ready for the beach, loaded with blankets, chairs and bags that seemed to contain food. Too bad I didn’t pack an apple. I took a swig from my bottle of water, reminding myself that I should save some if the water cup gets to murky and I could only stay as long as my bladder held out. I don’t like, to leave my stuff unattended there to use the facilities, so to go means completely packing up.  In all my trips to the Fort, I’ve metered the coffee and water well. 

Another couple of women about the same age as the earlier pair, in their fifties, walked by, talking about a person they see at the health club who hogs the machines. Again, I decided to not offer my thoughts.

A man, arms pumping, trekked uphill toward me. A while before, I watched him and another man with a bull dog on a leash, walking down together. He complimented my art then asked if I knew the area.

He told me that they’ve lived in Gurnee for twelve years but decided to explore the shore line by driving down Sheridan Road and accidentally happened on the Forest Preserve.  His partner and the pup caught up but  didn’t stop. He plodded his way up, both he and the dog panting. Watching him, I considered saying, I think I can, I think I can, but when people are on bikes, it doesn’t seem rude. The first man told me that he admired “my attempt at painting.” Ha! Once again, feint praise. 

An Asian gentleman, maybe Korean, wearing a khaki brimmed hat  stopped to chat. He asked whether I was retired. He told me he wanted to learn to paint and would like to paint as good as me when he retires. He lives in the Fort and owns a couple neighborhood liquor stores. I told him I’d been a customer of his and promised to buy more, so he could retire sooner. 

A man and a boy with a fresh outbreak of acne approached and said something nice about the painting. The dad said he wished he could paint, but has no talent. I told him to try anyway and I wished I could tell the boy to change his pillow case every night… it helped my boy along with some dermatological medicine with dire side effects that might have rendered a deformed baby if he got a girl pregnant or maybe made it impossible for me to have grandchildren,  I don’t remember exactly,  because apparently, I look retired. 

The dad said they were visiting from Georgia to attend his oldest son’s graduation the day before from Basic Training at Great Lakes Naval Academy. My heart broke for him as he described saying good bye to his boy who shipped out the same day for medic training in Texas, “shipped out the same day,” he repeated, like it hadn’t sunk in. No dinner at Maribel or celebration at a Tapas bar as we did for celebrations with my son. I wondered about “shipped out” as an all purpose term. I couldn’t quite picture him taking a boat through the Great Lakes or even down the Mississippi to San Antonio. He asked about things to do, as long as it didn’t mean going downtown to where there were a lot of people. I asked the teenager if he likes cars and suggested the auto museum in Volo and the renaissance fair in that area too. The dad said they were thinking about Gurnee Mall. 

A couple with a big Golden with grey at the jowls, stopped on their way down to the beach. I see them nearly every time I paint at Fort Sheridan. He is Caucasian, stick-figured and tall and nearly always wears a red t-shirt. She is Asian and comes up to his sternum. She must change her clothes because they don’t impress on me. He asked permission to look, leaned in, didnt comment and told me that their whole family is artistic. Their son in law just did all the labels for Burghoff beer in Chicago. 

 

Ellen, Frank, Kylee and Grandma trudged single file from the beach. Ellen wore Grandma’s hat, Grandma pushed Kylees scooter, Ellen asked if I’d like a rock that she found, then went in my bag, found the markers and colored a sliver of it dark blue, then told me I should do more. Frank asked to take a picture with Ellen and my painting which had progressed since they’d been through earlier. They all waved and said nin hao or neha, something I will need to clarify as one seems to be a greeting and the other a greeting to an old person. 

Several pairs of people went down or up and said nothing. 

The artist-couple returned, their dog’s hair matted and darker from a swim and proudly carrying a tennis ball in his mouth. The stick man said don’t let him brush up against you, I didn’t counter. They checked out the painting and said, “See you again,” and climbed on up the hill. 

Another group of two adult women and a rash of kids all on bikes struggled up the hill. The last one, a boy, maybe around eleven years asked if I would draw him. I said if he didn’t pedal any faster I probably could. Mostly, at the speed he was progressing, I worried that he’d fall over. He stopped to look at my painting. I suggested he paint himself, but I got to keep it? He took the sketchbook and markers still out from Ellen. He painted a navy blue half moon then a black u-shaped line beneath for his helmet and strap… a perfect likeness. His mom circled back and watched him. He used the handle bars for his easel and balanced the markers with his knees. His mom said, “What are you drawing?” “Me on my bike.” “Why don’t you get off your bike?” I knew why she asked, it looked awkward. “I’m good”, he replied. He was. His mom circled around again and headed up the hill. He said, “I’d better go, they are leaving me again.” He signed his drawing, “Colin” and took off. 

An older man trying to control a wheel chair with a woman whose head appeared no higher than the back of the chair, reminded me of a Pinewood Derby race car from Boy Scout days as they sped by. “Hell-low”, I heard once they passed. There isn’t much more asphalt to explore at the bottom of the hill.  One must immediately navigate steep, cement steps, the uneven kind used to manage shoreline erosion to get to the beach. So, it was only a couple minutes later that I saw him pushing the wheel chair with his arms tightly outstretched and locked up the private road. A couple minutes later the Pinewood Derby couple flashed down the hill again. Returning by way of the path, he stopped to rest and chat. He found the gate at the top closed. He told me that they were visiting his sister in law from Ohio, She gave him the much needed hat he wore imprinted with Mackinac Island and he hoped to visit there one day. Good-bye were her only words. 

There are a couple themes from this day. First, that painting plein air is not solitary. In pursuing painting or any new interest, I wanted a community. I figured it would be artists discussing perspectives. Little did I know it would be a greater world community who are attracted to an easel and the act of painting. My art community, as it turns out, is intergenerational, international, may not experience painting and includes dogs. Discussions are varied, broad, sometimes intimate and in some instances, the potential to be continued. 

A couple years before I dove in, I saw a couple in Taos, NM painting a mountain scene out of the back of their pick up truck, and I saw people dotting the landscape of Cedarburg, WI, participating in, what I learned was a pleine air competition. It occurred to me that I could be out anywhere in the world, by myself and paint, not feeling the pressure of singleness. This particular day, my need for community was satisfied. And, my interest in being outside without pressure to walk or bike to feel productive and still not look like the little old men on park benches asleep with a newspaper draped across their chest.

Let me make this clear. I am not retired. I am not a grandparent. The questions about this phase of my life may as well be someone pointing at my stomach asking, are you pregnant?   If I want to be kind to myself, I analyze that they figure I am not a professional artist and therefore must be retired to indulge in painting. If I want to rattle myself, I wonder if cosmetic surgery is a something to consider. 

Though I’ve never heard a disparaging word, I recognize that I use an internal smart ass to react to my imagination of visitor’s internal judgment.  My current self-confidence requires people seeing only finished products, yet, I choose to paint in public. Ridiculous thinking, but my current ridiculous thinking. I plan to rise above it. I figure visitors want to engage, maybe encourage me. It’s a nice gesture but it is confusing. I like to encourage people too, but I am now thinking about the best way to do so. It might be kinder to ask a question rather than make a statement. Where are you heading with that? What perspective are you working on? Or, how will you know when it’s done? I suppose the question could be an intrusion and require a conversation. For my process, that might feel more apt. I am going to try it next time I am tempted to interrupt someone. 

My bladder finally got to a point I needed to pull up stakes. It was a good day to paint. It was a good day to learn.