Staying with it

On giving myself permission to persist

This weekend, I attended a four-day art camp in the mountains of northeastern San Diego County. At the opening circle Thursday afternoon, our leader K handed out permission slips, small pieces of paper with simple statements such as, “You are allowed to call yourself an artist” and “You are allowed to make bad art.”

Some people laughed. Some went quiet. It felt both gentle and disarming, like being given something you didn’t realize you needed.

After introductions, we were guided through an acrylic pouring exercise. I hated how mine turned out, but thought of the permission slip. I just made bad art. No big deal.

While the group gathered by the fire, I hesitated, wondering how we would manage working together, sharing materials and methods. There seemed to be so many of us — 20 in all.

But I reminded myself, we all seemed sensitive in similar ways. Open, creative, a little unsure of ourselves, and unsure about how this was all going to turn out.

I had signed up to help with the dishes after meals, in exchange for something steady to do when I felt socially awkward. A task, a rhythm, a place to stand. It helped a bit, but it was lonely.

That first night was very cold. I slept poorly in my tent, adjusting layers, trying to find warmth. I thought seriously about leaving, or at least finding a hotel for the rest of the weekend.

On Saturday morning, I took a solo walk after doing the breakfast dishes. It helped. Then K gave a lecture on her favorite artist and our muse for the weekend: Van Gogh. She showed us a beautiful example of his work done while hospitalized for mental illness in Provence. K encouraged us to sketch it, and then paint it.

For my assignment, I laid down a vivid fuchsia behind the sky to honor Van Gogh’s use of geranium lake, a pigment known for its intensity — and its impermanence. Joyfully, I let the fuchsia show through. It created a vibration, an aliveness, beneath the sky and clouds.

Katinka had invited a two-piece band to play while we worked that day, and the accordion music suited the mood perfectly. I couldn’t be happier.

That night we painted under blacklights during an 80s-themed party. The full moon was high. Glow sticks, music, people dancing and collaborating on their canvases. The landscape dissolved into electric blues and greens.

I made a painting of crossing lines and fluorescent color. Energy moving outward. After the field, we glowed. I slept very well that night in my warm den.

By Saturday morning, K and T, our chef, had both noticed I was doing more than my fair share of dishes. They told me I didn’t need to work quite so hard. I explained that I use work to regulate myself in group settings. They understood immediately, and said they both do the same. It was a kind moment. I felt seen.

That day, we were asked to “borrow from Van Gogh.” I worked on a portrait inspired by one of his—brushwork, structure, and a tolerance for strangeness. I plan to keep working on it at home.

Later, we made abstract work with a limited palette. Three colors, repeated shapes, attention to value. I chose colors I don’t particularly like. The painting resisted me. I stayed with it, again remembering I’d been given permission to dislike what I was working on.

I touched the canvas with a wet brush full of white paint and let it drip. The tops reminded me of the small clustered blooms of yarrow which were growing near my tent. I hadn’t planned on that, but it was enough to keep me going.

Later, we gathered for a guessing game with our abstract paintings. Each piece was pulled from a box and the group tried to identify the artist. Mine drew laughter. Someone said it looked like a melting Christmas tree. Others noticed that, when rotated, the focal point resembled buttocks.

More jokes ensued. K blushed. No one guessed it was mine. And I suppose that was the point.

On Sunday, our last day, we were paired to draw portraits. I worked with Patty, a quiet widow a few years older than me. She had lost her husband two years earlier and had come to camp on her own, just as I had. It felt like a shared step outward for each of us.

We settled into the work. There was a steadiness between us. Attention without pressure. She told me the portrait she made of me was the first she had ever done. I think she appreciated the one I made of her.

At the closing circle, we shared the work we had made over the weekend. Each of us named the piece we felt most proud of. I chose my Van Gogh study with the fuchsia underpainting.

We were invited to ask K for feedback about one of our artworks, so I brought out my abstract piece. I said I didn’t like it enough to hang it up, nor did I hate it enough to start over. I wanted to know what else I could do with it.

She suggested I put it away for a few months, then look at it again. She pointed out the botanical quality of the white drips, the ones that had reminded me of yarrow. I liked the painting more after that.

By the end of the weekend, something had shifted. I learned how to stay with things. Through the cold first night. Through uncertainty. Through making things I didn’t immediately like.

I adjusted. I kept going. Something emerged. I made paintings I didn’t expect. I let myself be seen. I left with new friends and a series of hugs.

And I will be going back to art camp next time.