I'll Never Be An Artist

I like trying new things. It’s a hobby of mine, like collecting dust or ageing. So, one day, in a moment of catastrophic optimism, I decided to take up watercolour painting.

I started to regret my decision. Long after the shouting had ended and the neighbours returned to their tea.

I bought a "Beginner’s Set." It contained paints. Brushes of varying degrees of uselessness. And paper that looked far too innocent for what was coming. I provided the water myself—being a clever lad and having a tap that worked on Tuesdays.

I even ordered a book: Watercolour for Beginners. I could already see the masterpieces. A cross between Monet’s lilies and a minor electrical fire in a shed.

I opened the book. It didn't bite, which was a start. Lesson 1: Mixing colours. “Add a dab of green,” the book whispered in a font that lied, “and a dab of blue to get this lovely tone.”

Right.

I dabbed green. I dabbed blue. Result: A shade of vomit that would have made a medical student faint.

I tried again. This time, a "nauseous lime" with a reduced amount of vomit. I dipped the brush. I painted a blob. It sat there on the paper, a sorrowful swamp, staring back at me with accusatory wetness.

Still, not one to quit (a character flaw), I reached for my sketchbook. I drew my coffee mug. It came out looking intoxicated. Leaning at an angle that defied gravity. And basic porcelain physics, but it was clearly a mug. Hope flared in my chest like a cheap cigar.

I mixed again. Dab. Swirl. Dab. Paint hit paper. The paint immediately decided it hated the paper. It was a clash of personalities. The paint went rogue; it fled in all directions like it owed someone money and the bailiffs were at the door. My coffee mug vanished, swallowed by a tide of damp regret.

Balls.

I made coffee. I re-read the book. Everyone struggles with colour mixing. This often includes those lacking creativity or those with excessive free time. Inspired, I grabbed a fresh sheet of paper. And with a dramatic flourish that strained my shoulder.

I tried again. This time, I created a brand-new colour. Let’s call it “Defeat Beige.” I ran out of green. I improvised with brown.

My page now resembled a crime scene in a petting zoo.

Anger rose. It started in my socks and worked its way up to my eyebrows. I sketched again. Focused. I held my breath until my face was the colour of a bruised plum. This time, the paint stayed where I put it.

Then it changed its mind.

It ran straight off the page, executed a sharp left turn, and dived into my coffee.
Splash.

I opened the window.

I let out a loud shout and threw the whole kit... brushes, paper, paints, rags, hopes, dreams, and a bit of my dignity—into the garden.

“GRRRRRR… BOLLOCKS!”

Mary walked in. She paused, taking in the chaos. There was paint on the walls. Rage was in the air. A vomit-coloured pigeon wandered across the lawn. Appearing startled and resembling an avant-garde figure.

“Not going well, then?” she asked, with the calm of a woman who has seen this play before and didn't like the ending. “NO,” I barked, vibrating with fury.

“Try something else?” She said.

“GRRR.”

She left, shaking her head like a disappointed clock.

Note to self: I am red/green colour blind. This is a vital piece of information I should have shared with myself earlier. I shouldn’t mess with painting. Or colouring. Or crayons. Or traffic lights.

My camera helps me make sense of the world. It sees what I see.

A set of Crayolas sits in the box and laughs at me in a language I do not understand.