Paint What You See
Hi there,
Something I haven’t shared with you before is that I’m currently writing a memoir. I’ve been writing it on and off for the last four years (mainly off), but this year, I gave myself a deadline of this summer to finish it. The book, a collection of essays, is a reflection of my 20s — marked by extreme fun and, at times, turmoil.
Right now, I’m very much in the messy phase of the process, but for this Five-Minute Letter, I wanted to share an essay I wrote earlier this week. I hope you enjoy it.
When I was 13, my parents enrolled me in private painting lessons with a woman named Lucia. She was a tiny woman — no taller than five feet from the island of St. Croix. She spoke with this beautifully rich accent, a voice that was nurturing and soothing. She always styled her hair in a neatly cut pixie with a medley of brown, grey, and blonde that complemented her bone structure. She was well into her 60s — maybe 70s — beautiful, and never in a rush.
She held lessons in her home. She transformed a portion of it into a small studio with a few roses of long tables to seat students. Every week, twice a week, for an hour and a half to two hours, I’d sit at my table. Usually, my subjects of choice were landscapes, like tropical shores and countrysides, or sometimes florals, like arrangements or close-up studies of single stems. It was common for me to finish one painting every few weeks.
Mrs. Lucia’s home studio was my safe place. At my house, it was often cold and rigid. A thick, suffocating cloud hung over us. At school, I was perpetually anxious and afraid of bullies and ostracizing. I was different, and no amount of Jordans or Hollister pants (that my family couldn’t afford) or changing the way I spoke would be able to cover it up. Most days, I hated who I was because, at every turn, I felt that I wasn’t exactly who people wanted me to be. When I was with Mrs. Lucia, I could be myself, even if I didn’t know who that “self” was at such a young age. What mattered most was that I had the time and space to think about it.
“Paint what you see, not what you think you see.” She said it so often that nearly 20 years later, it’s tattooed onto my memory. It took me a few years to understand what she meant by that and even more years to realize that such a phrase could be applied to virtually any aspect of life.
Some days, especially during the summer, I’d stay past my lesson. We’d talk about techniques and supplies, but we’d also talk about life, or rather, she’d talk to me about life. She’d share stories of distant memories in St. Croix. She’d talk about meeting her husband, Mr. Richard, and their dates at the 10¢ theater. She’d tell tales of life out West, a place I’d never visited before, but she’d help me travel there through her vivid descriptions of the landscape, colors, and people. For those brief moments, I could float away to experiences that I’d hope to call my own one day.
I took lessons from Mrs. Lucia for about three years. School demands and my increased preoccupation with boys stole a bit of my time and interest. I’d still visit her occasionally, though less frequently over time. She passed away during my sophomore year of college. My mom told me that she went in for heart surgery and never woke up. Before going, she signed one of her unfinished paintings. Perhaps she knew her time had come.
She may be gone, but almost twenty years later, Mrs. Lucia’s stories and our time together have been rising to the surface of my memory quite often lately.
“Paint what you see, not what you think you see.”
In college, I struggled in my art studio classes. I was plagued by fear of blank slates. I tortured myself with obsessive comparisons between my work and my peers'. I was terrified of displaying my work for critique.
My work always seemed to be missing something — depth, complexity, something intangible that I could never quite put my finger on. I can name it now, though. My work lacked any reflection of lived experience. Aside from a handful of projects that I was proud of, most of them were missing me — my fingerprint, my unique perspective, my connection to something deeper. I was producing what I thought other people wanted to see instead of creating from my well of inner knowing and experience. It was safer that way, but it was also a constant betrayal of myself and my creativity.
Meaningful art comes from meaningful living. It’s the travels and conversation and ferocious learning and joys and sorrows that culminate into the well from which an artist can draw. It can’t be acquired from a third party. Training yourself to see is a lifelong solo project.
The second half of my 20s and up to now have been consumed by my determination to see. I’ve traveled to other countries. I finally made my cross-country pilgrimage out West and up the California coast. In many ways, it was exactly as I imagined it based on the way that Mrs. Lucia described it. Everything moved me. I’ve met people from all walks of life who’ve shifted my worldviews. I’ve laughed and cried and raged and loved as deeply as I possibly can. And I still have more of it all to do.
In life, we are paintings. We’re constantly dabbing and sweeping across what were once blank canvases of our lives. I believe that we come into this world naturally painting what we see until outside forces (our parents, our friends, society, etc) begin to tell us what we should see. From there, we may spend entire lifetimes retraining our eyes, but I believe it’s worth it. Meaningful art comes from meaningful living. And our lives are ours to create.
I’m thankful for Mrs. Lucia and the lessons that she continues to give me. Without her wisdom and patience, I do not know who I would’ve become.
Talk soon,
Kashara
KasharaJohnson.com | Rooted Collective