Project Calm – July 2019

(Nandana) #1

118


Capture the bright colours and beautiful scenery
of your holiday with an afternoon of painting.

I have discovered that I paint like a child. Perhaps this shouldn’t
come as much of a surprise, given that the last time I painted
with any seriousness I was at school.
It didn’t take long to convince my fiancé – now husband –
that we should spend an afternoon painting on our honeymoon
in Greece. He is certainly more artistic than I am. Before we set
off for the airport we took a quick trip to a local art store and
bought some tiny watercolour palettes, sketchbooks and a set of
brushes. For around £20 each we had become hobbying artists,
excited to record our honeymoon in paint.
Although there are art classes at a beachside studio near
our hotel in Kefalonia, every day of our trip had warnings of
thunderstorms. Rather than be disappointed that our class got
rained out, we decided to go it alone. We packed our brushes
and sketchbooks and found a quiet place to sit. Thankfully the
promised rain never did make an appearance.
Katelios, our little beachside village, was just waking up for
the season, so we didn’t have to jostle with hundreds of other
holidaymakers. In the end, we settled on a fallen tree on a
secluded part of the beach. I confess that I had been looking for
the perfect spot. Maybe a bench or a table. I was hoping to find
something – or perhaps someone – to give me permission to get
started. Somewhere that said, “it’s OK to paint here”. I soon
realised that it’s absolutely fine to paint anywhere.
However, that doesn’t make you less self-conscious. It’s not
easy to partake in a hobby outside of the safety of a class. It
draws the attention of onlookers, and if you’re not confident in
your abilities it can be difficult to get started – like being unable
to type the second you can feel someone standing behind you.
Whenever anyone passed by, I busied myself with getting the
right shade of blue for the sea, which proved to be an unending
challenge in itself. There were hundreds of shades of blue to
capture in any one moment.

I suspect that I am too impatient for watercolours. Too eager
to get it right first time. I could feel myself getting frustrated
as water ran into swirls of marine blue across my postcard-
sized canvas, getting away from my intentions and my hopes of
perfection. Despite my frustrations, it wasn’t until I stopped to
apply more sunscreen that I noticed how relaxed I was, soaking
up the location. Waves nudged their way into the foreground
in the gentlest of ways, boats bobbed along the horizon, giving
us new details to focus on. I soon stop getting distracted by the
holidaymakers walking by and became only aware of my new
husband and I, trying something just for the fun of it. It was
unexpectedly romantic.
Still, I get in a tizz when my sky isn’t right. I can’t fix it. For
some reason I had anticipated that my first attempt would be
a masterpiece. We often forget that creativity is something that
takes practice and effort. Some people are blessed with a natural
ability but they put the work in, too. “You’re so gifted!” we say
to artists, as though they don’t practise their craft every day.
Our second attempts – after a lunch of ice cold beers and
Greek salad – are much improved. I’ve relaxed (though that
might have been the beer). I learn the importance of waiting
for paint to dry (and in the afternoon sun, this isn’t in any way
arduous). I have a little more control and my newfound patience
is rewarding. So is being less hard on myself. Now that I have
slowed down, I start to just enjoy the moment – sitting under
a sun lounger on a quiet beach, watching the afternoon sun
twinkle a blanket of diamonds across the Ionian Sea. Painting
forces you to really look and remember.
My final landscape is every bit as childlike as my first. It also
has some depth and definition that I am surprised by. And the
elusive shade of the sea – somewhere between a jewel jade and
bright turquoise – feels like the heart of our honeymoon on
paper, more true than I could have captured with a photograph.

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