“Good afternoon, young man. My granddaughter wants to learn how to paint. I already have a full set of acrylic paints, a few canvases in different sizes, and an assortment of brushes. I realized as I was wrapping them for her birthday that she won’t know where to start, so I’m looking for a book that she can learn from.”
“Okay, let me see. We have a couple of books for beginners. They cover everything you need to know, from preparing the canvas to mixing colors to some easy techniques. If you want something specific for acrylic paint, we have this one,” I say, pulling out a heavy book from the shelf. “This one is a lot more detailed. I like it because it teaches a little bit of art history and gives some examples of famous paintings and their backgrounds.”
The lady takes the book from me and flicks through a few pages.
“You know how to paint?”
“Um…yeah.”
“How did you learn?”
“I went to art school,” I say, hoping her questions stop there.
“You’re not from here, are you?” she asks, and I shake my head.
“What we need in Stillwater is an art school, or somewhere kids can learn these things. Books are good, but when it comes to arts and crafts, surely it’s better to just do.”
I smile. “You’re right. Trying, getting it wrong, and then getting it right was how I learned, and having someone guiding you is priceless. There’s a great sense of achievement when you paint something as simple as the sky and you get the colors and the brush strokes just right. It’s fun to play with the colors and textures. Even painting on things other than a blank canvas.”
“Look at you all lit up. You should be teaching kids how to paint,” she says, nudging my arm with her hand.
I smile, and she raises the book as a sign that she’s taking it with her.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“That’s it, dear.” She walks toward the checkout desk but then stops and turns around. “You know, back when this place was owned by the Raleighs, there was a big ballroom at the back. They used to throw this huge New Year’s party every year and invite everyone. Now that would be a great place to teach art. Lots of sun coming through those big windows.”
She looks toward the staff door and then back at me before sighing. “Of course, after Mr. and Mrs. Raleigh died, the children probably split the house up and sold it as separate areas. For a town that takes far too much pride in its traditions, it also never stays the same,” she says, her voice laced with nostalgia.
“The room is still there. It’s part of the building. I call it the barn,” I say, laughing because it never occurred to me that it would ever be part of the old family house, let alone a ballroom.
She continues on to the checkout, leaving me with her words.
There’s no doubt the barn’s bright light and space lend themselves for art classes, but is that something Sage would want?
I see a box of papercraft supplies on the floor by the shelf, so I sit cross-legged on the floor and start working on it while I think about how to approach the subject with Sage.
Something tells me he’d be up for it. But am I?
Can I really teach kids how to paint?
My parents hired a private art tutor when a drawing I made for school got some attention from one of their friends who's an art connoisseur. I was only ten, but having someone say I was talented enough that it was worth investing in was the best and worst day of my life up until then.
I absorbed everything my tutor taught me like an eager little sponge. I painted any time I wanted, even in the middle of the night when I had an idea in my head and couldn’t sleep until the brush teased the canvas and helped me release it all.
It was great at first. I was getting better and challenging myself, combining techniques and trying new things. Sometimes I just closed my eyes and let the brush guide me.
But then everything changed.
I couldn’t bear to be the reason a kid stopped having fun with something that could bring them so much joy. Then again, if there’s nowhere for kids to learn or try, maybe the world will miss out on great art.
My mind runs a mile a minute, torn between my own experiences and the unexpected tug from my heart toward something I didn’t know I was missing.
Not long after arriving in India, I began discovering the amazing handmade crafts that tell the story of a country that is so often misunderstood. My painting was soon cast aside in favor of learning the techniques anyone was willing to show me in exchange for English lessons.
It’s been a long time since I’ve picked up a paintbrush, and now my hands feel too heavy. Or maybe I’m just too scared of what might happen.
I’m lost in my own world when my eyes are covered with a small pair of hands. I hear a giggle behind me and can’t help smiling.
