In March, I signed up for an Intro to 2D Art class at my local art museum.

Every Wednesday for four weeks, I’d bounce up to the Square at 6:30 after work. I’d follow the steps down into the basement of the old post office building and sit down at a table with two other women who were curious to develop new skills.

The first week we drew spheres. Harder than it sounds.

The second week, we did landscapes.

On the third week, we carved block prints.

On the last day, we made abstracts with mixed media—pencils, pastels, and watercolors.

Without fail, every week, the conversation in the classroom sounded the same.

“I don’t know where to start.”

“I’m so bad at this.”

“Have I messed this up beyond repair?”

There was a lot of insecurity and judgment amongst our small group.

But I also observed that the other women in the class shared one prerequisite skill that I did not have: they knew how to ask for help.

“What would you do next?”

“How would you fix this?”

What?! You can just do that??? Despite the fact I was literally paying for instruction, it didn’t occur to me that I could flag the teacher down for assistance. I would rather sit quietly in the corner with whatever mess I made.

The pieces of art I produced at art class in March are decidedly not good.

Contrary to my own fantasies, I did not pick up an oil pastel and discover some untapped prodigy within. There are no hidden talents here.

What I did learn is: I think painting is fun even when the results are bad.

A painting of a mountain landscape from art class.

In the weeks since my art class, I have become a frequent shopper at DICK BLICK dot com. (It’s renamed Blick Art Materials now but I think DICK BLICK is more fun to say, don’t you?)

Boxes of paints, paper, brushes, and sponges have been steadily arriving on my front porch.

It’s become something of a habit. Every morning I take the big orange Fiskars scissors, cut up a slice of watercolor paper, fill my gold solo cups at the tap, and find something to paint.

Watercolor is funny. It punishes you for a lack of patience. Bleeding pigment can be beautiful. The way the water moves and soaks into the paper gives you some time to play. But if you work too hard, the colors get muddy and the fibers pill up. Sometimes it’s better to lay down a stroke with confidence. Walk away from it and let it breathe.

Can you tell this is a mango?

Every time I sit down to paint, I make a mistake and get feedback. Those colors didn’t mix the way I expected. That wasn’t the best brush for that detail. The wash needed longer to dry.

When I try again the next day, I build on what I learned. What if I try more pigment? Let’s pick a bigger, rounder brush this time…

In about thirty minutes, the paper can’t hold any more paint. My new favorite thing is peeling away the masking tape that I use to fix my paper down on an Epicurean cutting board while I work.

A little bit smudgy.

Critically, the thing that makes this whole activity so wonderful is that I don’t identify as a Painter.

Over the course of my life, I’ve acquired various titles, ascribed to me by adults or colleagues at work. Writer. Singer. Marketer.

Once the label is there, there’s suddenly this duty to perform, work to prove I’m worthy of the descriptor as assigned.

Gloriously, I can paint but I’m not a painter. (Again, but with the The Killers voice this time.)

I can paint but I’m not a Painter!

Or, maybe I am a Painter but I’m not a Fine Artist. I can paint house trim and daisies on my clogs and watercolors every morning. But I don’t have to wear the weight that a real Artist wears.

Everybody knows that Malcolm Gladwell 10,000-hour thing.

If I were to paint for 30 minutes every day for the rest of my life, I wouldn’t achieve mastery of watercolors until I’m 91 years old! My grandmother, my Nana, will turn 91 in a week or so. I’m not certain I’ll live as long as she has. I’m not sure I have the will. Plus, at the rate we’re rolling back public health in America, I might die of listeria or lead poisoning first.

However, I am sure that in the minutes when I am painting, I am a happy little tree, even temporarily. I have less space to ruminate while I’m trying to figure out how to recreate a droplet of dew on a flower petal. All the despair that exists in the world must wait until the shadows dry.

If you are sad, anxious, or hopeless

If you feel like a failure

If you’re angry or isolated, surrounded by heartless bodies

May I suggest the gentle therapy of starting a new hobby?

Go be bad at something. You can’t get that wrong.