Everything including the kitchen sink!

My new course on watercolours begins next week. Titled, ‘Watercolour Essentials,’ it’s going to cover all the things you really need to get started in the medium that not only intimidated Vincent Van Gogh and vexed John Singer Sargent, but was deemed by David Hockney to be ‘wishy washy’ and ‘suitable only for Sunday painters.’ Hockney’s softened his attitude latterly and Sargent, after the scandal with Madame Gautreau, pretty well reinvented himself as a Sunday painter, but for a tutor like me, who’s been at the business for more years than Winsor & Newton has half-pans, the real struggle is in keeping things fresh. After nearly three decades of fruit, flowers and holiday photo’s, just what can I bring along to that first session in June for everyone to paint?

There was a time (when I was holding down two other jobs and had four daughters under the age of eleven), that I didn’t apply quite the same dedication to my teaching as I do now. Out of necessity, then, I’d often employ what a seasoned, fellow tutor described as the ‘Dead Badger’ method of teaching.

For instance. You’re driving to class with too little sleep, having done no prep and without a clue about what you’re going to teach. A vision of all your eager, expectant students fills your head and the disappointment on their faces when they realise you’ve arrived empty-handed (and headed) again is making you cringe already. Then, as you round the final bend before the college entrance, your eyes alight on an inert, grey object by the roadside.

“Oh, look! Dead badger!” you say to yourself, brightening and screeching to a halt.

Sea Bream, watercolour on TR paper from my Watercolour A to Z; F is for Fish

I’ve inflicted several dead fish, a dead rabbit, a live chicken and even a ferret on my students over the years, but never an actual, dead badger. The contents of the cupboard under the village hall sink have served on more than one occasion and I make no bones about it. Even a random piece of plastic U-bend and an old scouring pad can look beguiling under the right lighting. An impromptu still-life of paint-encrusted jam jars and kitchen cleaning products may not be worthy of a Cotán, but it should at least pass muster for an ersatz Bratby.

Still-life, chalk on paper, from The Language of Drawing at Dillington House

“I’ve got all that rubbish at home,” said Pat*, one Thursday evening, “But I’d never think of painting it.”
“Theodore Géricault kept the body parts of felons that he got from the morgue under his bed and would arrange them on a platter to paint,” said I, defiantly.
Pat eyed the old scouring pad with a grimace. Clearly to her, it had all the allure of a sawn-off foot.
“Why have we got to do this?” said Gerry.
“Because I filled out my tax return last night instead of prepping for the class and now I’m completely out of ideas.”
I didn’t say that, of course, but something like, “Colours and shapes! That’s your business as artists.”

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent

“I like flowers,” said Sylvia, contemplating the U-bend, “They’re much nicer. Can’t we go out the back and pick some dandelions?”

“If you only paint what you like, you’ll never get anywhere,” is what I wanted to say, but I bit my tongue. True, Albrecht Dürer made a masterpiece out of his ‘Great Piece Of Turf,‘ but that’s my point. The subject matter is entirely unprepossessing; just a scrubby, old patch of ground with a few weeds growing out of it. It’s what Dürer did with it that counts.

“Colours and shapes!” I repeated.

“It’s a load of old junk,” said Pat.

“Transform it so it’s junk no more!” said I.

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Hairdryer on a carrier bag, Acrylic on paper

If you’re drawn, say, to a painting by Vincent Van Gogh of a bowl of potatoes, it isn’t solely because you like potatoes. As a student of art, getting your potato to actually look like a potato may well be an achievement in itself, but that’s really only the beginning. Art isn’t about describing things, it’s about turning them into images of wonder.

Cézanne did it with apples, Uglow with pears, Thiebaud with cream cakes and Soutine with a plucked goose or a carcass of beef. And Avigdor Arikha, when he’d done with the everyday objects on his writing desk, would transform the contents of his sock drawer into something beautiful. He’d even take his vest off and chuck that on the floor and paint it, along with his slippers. Then, after a couple of years scouring every nook and crannie of his house, he’d trot everything down to the Marlborough Gallery and they’d sell the lot.

Supper on a slab or a tie on a table-top; there are opportunities everywhere; shapes and colours, just waiting for you to get to grips with them. Don’t worry about whether it’s art or not. Just be curious. Stay healthy.

A version of this post originally appeared in Paint & Draw magazine from Future Publsihing