Can you see?
I swear I never saw anything until I began painting.
I remember always being in awe of nature, but I never really noticed it. I never saw the beauty of the one pale bare tree next to her sisters still wearing reds, yellows, and greens. I never noticed how the sunset glowed through the trees, splashing the sky in all shades of orange, alizarin, violet, and blue while the trees were only shadows against it. I swear I never realized how rich a green the leaves turned before a thunderstorm or the way a person’s iris is shot through with a dozen flecks of color.
Someone had to teach me to look.
Not how to look, but that I needed to look.
I wonder sometimes if most people walk through life never really seeing any details; that if no one tells them to actually look at things, they never see more than a second long picture of the world. I was twenty-two before I took my first painting class and actually started to look at things. I remember walking across campus one day and stopping to stare at this dandelion who miraculously survived the landscapers. Studying the light playing over that little flower’s leaves and seeing the shadows fall around it was the first time I realized I had never looked at anything before.
Since that day, I’ve taken much more time to stop and see things. But, I wonder what else I’m walking past, not realizing that there is something I don’t notice.
I remember always being in awe of nature, but I never really noticed it. I never saw the beauty of the one pale bare tree next to her sisters still wearing reds, yellows, and greens. I never noticed how the sunset glowed through the trees, splashing the sky in all shades of orange, alizarin, violet, and blue while the trees were only shadows against it. I swear I never realized how rich a green the leaves turned before a thunderstorm or the way a person’s iris is shot through with a dozen flecks of color.
Someone had to teach me to look.
Not how to look, but that I needed to look.
I wonder sometimes if most people walk through life never really seeing any details; that if no one tells them to actually look at things, they never see more than a second long picture of the world. I was twenty-two before I took my first painting class and actually started to look at things. I remember walking across campus one day and stopping to stare at this dandelion who miraculously survived the landscapers. Studying the light playing over that little flower’s leaves and seeing the shadows fall around it was the first time I realized I had never looked at anything before.
Since that day, I’ve taken much more time to stop and see things. But, I wonder what else I’m walking past, not realizing that there is something I don’t notice.
Comments
umm that turned out rather long and didn't really answer your question. I learned in school, yes. But I also learned a lot from mucking around on my own, getting confused, and trying to use techniques my teachers taught me and getting them 'wrong.' Some things I've learned from looking at other's work and 'reading' the painting. (though sometimes I can't figure out how in the world they managed to do certain things) At the end of the day, there is no wrong way to paint, though some ways are more successful than others according to the taste of the beholder. (wow...this is full of terrible sentence...)
So um, yes I learned in school, and yes it came naturally in that the way I paint is not something someone taught me but a culmination of everything I picked up along the way. err... I'll just shut up now.
I now take the same times when writing, to look.
Alexandra, I imagine it would help! I wonder how many writers are also artists and vice versa...