I have always been terrible at art.

That’s what I’ve been telling myself from perhaps as early as I can remember.

For me, art is messy, and never turns out the way I hope. I think it started in early childhood. I don’t really remember what was said, I just remember the feeling.

Somehow, I gathered I wasn’t good. I don’t know if this was something I got from others, or made up myself, but I felt it. This idea was carried with me into pretty much every art-making attempt after. (I can still feel the hot realisation I’d cut too far into my lino stencil in year 8).

So I always say, although I love to admire art, it’s not my thing, writing is. I guess there has been some kind of comfort in that. Perhaps it helps me feel sure about who I am, to know who I’m not. The irony is though, if it wasn’t for a recent art class, you wouldn’t be reading this right now.

It all started when I received an animated text from a dear artist friend of mine.

“Hey Lis, do you want to come to an alcohol inks art class with me? I think you’ll love it, it will be fun, you could write about it.”

Not knowing anything about this art form, my first internal reply was, “um, I would certainly not like to a) get my hands dirty or b) reveal my artistic shortcomings in a public arena.”

What I felt in that moment, was a big NO! So naturally, I said yes. You see, underlying our friendship is this ongoing conversation about our respective creative practices. And what we are both aware of, is something has been trying to break through the surface of mine. Yet all the talking, strategising and cheerleading has not been successful in cracking it open. So what’s the problem?

It’s the other belief I’ve carried from childhood, about my writing.

That’s the one in which I tell myself that writing is my “destiny.” My first poem was published in Jabberwocky magazine at 7 years old. For the next few years, I had a decent stream of publications, including The New Zealand Children’s Journal. I can still picture myself at the Young Authors’ Conference in Wellington in 1988 in my kung fu shoes and spiky hair. So smitten with that world, vowing it would be me on stage one day talking about my book.

Fast forward thirty five years on from that conference, and “one day” hasn’t come yet. Despite life taking its twists and turns, I still hold that identity of being a writer. For the past 13 years, I’ve been a copywriter. While that might seem close enough to the dream. (It is writing, after all!), I still see the young girl at that conference, and I know in my heart she’s disappointed.

So with this in mind, a couple of years ago I started writing in my own voice again. Poetry and articles, I’ve even started that novel. It’s been amazing to reconnect with the old part of myself I’d put aside. Yet, for some reason, I can’t seem to hit publish on anything. I’ve written thousands of my own words in my own voice in secret, and that’s where they’ve stayed. Although it’s ridiculous and I should just get over myself, I really don’t feel up to it.

Some kind of shift needs to happen

My friend has received these confessions, many times, and is super patient and encouraging. She suggests it might be helpful to treat each piece I write like one of her works. Once I’ve finished it, I need to commit to framing it. Meaning, I need to finish it completely, and put it out into the world immediately. I see her point on a theoretical level, but I. Just. Can’t. Do It.

So here I am, trusting my friend’s suggestion, ready to enter a creative studio where another artist is hosting an Alcohol Inks workshop. I do my best to put everything I’m grappling with out of my mind, and be completely present there. I’m not sure what it has to teach me, but I’m open to it.

I go in with a group who all seem to know each other. Their bubbly energy is infectious. I spot my friend at the back of the room and hug her, before finding a place at the table. Most people are chatting together and there’s a sense of anticipation in the air. A few people seem to be on their own. I try to imagine how they are feeling, and who they are. What brings someone to a class like this? I suppose many, like my friend, are already fluent in art making. In their case, they’re probably feeling excitement at trying a new medium. I wonder, are there any others like me, mostly trying not to feel like they’re wasting the fancy paper and ink? If so, I can’t tell by looking at them. I smile at everyone, and take my seat.

The class begins

The table is set for ten people, with a black apron folded neatly over the back of each chair. In front of each place, lies some glossy white paper and an array of jewel coloured inks in bottles. At the sight of all the ink, I promptly put on my apron. The artist gives a short speech, which totally calls me out on all the conversations I’ve had with myself. She tells us to put aside the feelings of not being good at art. Of how something should look.

“You should give yourself permission to make bad art,” she informs us, “and you’ll get the most out of the class.”

As someone who is probably, most definitely going to make bad art, I feel relieved. As we begin, I realise how necessary that speech is. Alcohol inks certainly have a mind of their own. To work with them, you must go with the flow. You must be willing to experiment. Into a splodge of alcohol we drop our choice of vibrant, beautiful colour. What a delight to watch it blend, swirling across the page. Changing, blurring, deepening, fading.

The entire process seems to be unfolding more like a co-creation, between me and something else.

Blowing through a straw, the colour spreads in strange whirling shapes. It’s mesmerising. Shifting like clouds, spreading like water. I can’t imagine the process can ever be precise, but we can be more intentional about the consistency and the final shape. 

I feel a sense of joyous experimentation. It’s almost childlike. Just when we think we’ve mastered how the inks flow on a particular paper, we’re directed to a different consistency or thickness, and we are beginners again. Or adding hints of gold or silver, to dance with the colour.

Now and then, I look up from my work, and marvel at what’s being created around me. Everyone’s art is different. Their choice of colours. The techniques they’ve used to create distinct effects. Rather than feeling inadequate, I feel inspired.

Someone starts singing to the soul music that’s been playing in the background. It prompts everyone else at the table to sing too, unashamed. Maybe it’s the alcohol fumes, or maybe it’s the medium itself that opens up a sense of freedom. Either way, there’s so much fun in the room.

I can’t help but wonder, what are we missing by not including more of this kind of creativity in our busy lives?

Suddenly, the time is up, and I’m disappointed it’s over.

We finish up with a few group photos, and before we know it, everyone is calling out their goodbye’s warmly into the summer night. I head back to my car, and set my masterpieces on the seat beside me carefully

In the morning, I open my folder, excited to choose something to frame. Admittedly, they all look a little amateurish in the light of day, but I’m okay with that. I focus on one particular piece. I’m not sure if it’s the combination of colours, the obscene amount of gold, or the feeling I had while I was creating it. Maybe it’s all three. I put it under the frame, and I know it’s the right one. Not because it’s perfect. Far from it. I think it’s the closest to representing what I’ve been searching for in my writing and in my life.

My ink art may not have been perfect, but I’ve framed it anyway. Now it has pride of place on the sideboard in my dining room, and every time I look at it I feel happy. I remember humming to myself, choosing my favourite colours. Without judging myself, I let them drop onto the paper, not caring what the outcome will be.

I realise I’ve been holding this writing dream for so long, and on such a pedestal, it’s been impossible for anything I do to ever measure up to it in reality. I understand now, that’s why my writing has been sitting forever in the folder, never making it to the frame. I’m warming to the fact that maybe it’s time to let go of the dream, to be able to hold onto it in reality. That this whole thing is less about who I am because of what I write, and mostly, about who I am simply because I write. It’s the closest I’ve been to a breakthrough in some time.

The final aha moment comes weeks later. My parents call. They’re coming over for a visit. They haven’t been to our place in a while. As my Mum settles herself down in a dining chair, her gaze drifts to the sideboard.

“Ooh that’s a beautiful painting, where did you get it? “ she asks, rising from her chair to touch it.

I look at her face, expecting to see humour, or false flattery, but it’s not there. I know she has no clue I painted it. No sense of its imperfection at all. To her, it’s just fine. Lovely even.

I chuckle to myself, and in that moment, it all sinks in.