Pastels, Paint, and Letting Go

Tonight, my god-niece and I had a little art session. Neither of us is versed in creating with pastels, so I thought it would be fun to try a tutorial together—an impressionist landscape by an artist who described it as “beginner-friendly.” It looked straightforward enough.

I had only one set of pastel colours in my stash, so we shared what we had and gave ourselves a 30-minute deadline to complete our masterpieces. The plan was to keep it light, playful, and experimental. And it was—though not in the way we expected.

Ten minutes in, it became hilariously obvious that we were not using the same materials as the instructor. She had chalk pastels. We had oil pastels. Oops! That explained why her colours blended so softly while we were smudging like crazy, trying to get the same effect. Once we figured it out, we let go of the idea of matching her strokes and focused instead on just enjoying the process.

My god-niece tapped out before the 30 minutes were up, but I was determined to finish mine. I realized there were effects she achieved that just weren’t going to happen with oil pastels, but I was enjoying the process. I liked what I ended up with—even though it looked absolutely nothing like the tutorial. Chalk pastels are now officially on my shopping list.

After our “timed” session, I decided to keep going. I pulled out my acrylic paints and began adding layers of paint on top of the pastel base. It turned into a mixed-media experiment. But with that came the usual feeling I often get when painting: a quiet, nagging fear of making a mistake. How can I make a mistake when I’m not even following something or answering to anyone?

It’s strange. I’ve been creating things all my life, but painting still intimidates me. Maybe it’s because I want it to be good from the start. Maybe I picked up the idea somewhere along the way that painting is supposed to come naturally or easily. For me, it doesn’t—at least not when I’m thinking too much. When I let go—when I quiet the perfectionism and get into a zone—it starts to feel fun, even freeing.

I first realized I had this resistance when I took my first art class a couple of years ago. I’d spend too long hesitating before making a mark, afraid to “mess it up.” Everyone in the class had some drawing and painting experience, and I was just sitting there with my love for art bubbling up, wanting to express it on the paper with my first brushstroke. But it’s not even rational—because I mean, who’s the judge? Who’s watching?

For my master’s program, I have to create artwork along with my thesis. I really need to continue making work for fun so that when I’m creating those pieces, I feel more free, can get in the zone quicker and trust the process. You can’t find flow without pushing past the fear. Art is about motion. Movement. And whatever is on the other side of that fear.

And truthfully, most of the time, no one is watching but me—and well, maybe you (the few people who read this blog), when I decide to share.

I’m not entirely sure what I’m trying to say with all these musings, except maybe this: whether it's art, writing, or sharing your voice in any way—just do the thing. We waste too much time worrying about how it will be received by people who are likely too busy thinking about themselves anyway. As Rick Rubin says: create, share, move on. Don’t overanalyze. Don’t obsess. Just post it, close your eyes, and maybe even close the app.

So here’s me doing exactly that. I really like what I made. I’m happy to share them with you. No overthinking. No disclaimers. Just joy in the making.