I spent some time with oil pastels this evening, just laying down color in washes and simple shapes. My history with art is tangled and tortuous; the goal, when I was younger, was to become a comic book artist. For many reasons, that never came to fruition. Although I didn’t definitively lose interest, there was a definite shift in priorities near the end of my high school education that led me down a different road.
Part of it, I think, is my need for precision–either precision or nothing at all. And precision came with practice, and my art teachers were impatient with precision. To them, it doesn’t reflect a style. Maybe it’s true that there’s no style to it. All of my watercoloring adventures were achieved with tiny pointed brushes and as little water as necessary, even though that was my preferred medium. Lay down the pencils, overlay those with flowing black inks, and fill in the spaces with vivid watercolors. To be fair, the effect charmed a few.
Working with pastels is so different, and I don’t find it freeing at all. Pastels are thick and rough, even the smooth Sakura pastels I picked up somewhere, and above all, imprecise. I found myself wishing for one of my small brushes from days past to dip in the solvent and make a paint, but all I had were the cheapest kinds of children’s brushes, thick and artificial, unable to allow the artist to display any finesse.
The texture was maddening, and I took a tissue to the pigments and rubbed them smooth onto the paper.
When I walked away after a short half-hour, I felt a sense of growing emotional distance between myself and my box of art supplies. I even felt a little bit angry. In a way, I feel like something has been stolen from me, even though there’s no one who could have been a culprit–one can’t steal from oneself.