Since I was four, a range of mentors, from my mom to my grandfather to a real art teacher, have helped me discover what I like—and don’t like—about art.
From the first time I picked up a paintbrush at the age of 4, I was immediately intrigued by the world of art-making. I was 8 when my mom suggested putting me into art classes on the weekends. I was excited to try different styles of art and counted down the days till I’d learn from a real art teacher. Taking an art class seemed very professional. But excitement quickly turned into frustration.
From the first day of art class, the teacher emphasized the importance of perfectly replicating other works of art. We’d filled out sketchbooks with pages of shaded patterns, cubes, and cylinders. There were pencil and charcoal drawings, realistic photographs, and various paintings we were expected to copy. She wanted everyone to draw exactly what was shown. I was frustrated by my attempts at drawing the pieces because it seemed as if my circles and lines could never be as precise as the original image.
Art Class Killed My Creativity
One week, the teacher had us draw a New Year’s greeting card that featured cartoon-like smiling sheep holding up bubble versions of the year 2015. Happy with my work, I brought up my paper. But instead of noticing my effort, the teacher circled my mistakes in a red marker.
“There are a lot of details that are inaccurate compared to the image I showed you,” she said. She told me to redo the piece.
I took another piece of blank paper and retreated to my table. I was proud of my drawing, and it hurt to see my art covered in big, overlapping red circles and slashes. Even if it was imperfect, I had wanted to bring it home to show my mom and keep it in my special artwork folder, but the teacher had ruined it.
Though I knew what the finished “perfect” piece should look like, I just couldn’t draw that precisely. I was exasperated and disappointed. I began feeling lost in a space I thought would feel so right for me.
I took a break and listened to the teacher speak with the older “upper level” students whose skilled life-like pieces filled me with awe. She spoke with them about art school and said art was always a competition. She marked their papers with a red number based on how accurately she thought they drew. Every week, we’d repeat the same cycle: with the teacher reminding us that making art was hard, and that there was always someone who was technically better than us.
When I had first entered art class, it felt like a new world. I had marveled over the wide variety of art materials displayed on the shelves, and the beautiful paintings and complex realistic art displayed in frames around the room. I eagerly listened to every word, took in every critique, and watched the teacher carefully as she spoke about techniques in art. But now, it felt like a competition I could never keep up with, and I felt drained of my passion for art. Two months later, I asked my mom to take me out of the art class.
New Inspiration
My mom helped me rebuild confidence after my art class experience. She encouraged me to continue drawing and bought me books about other artforms, like origami and embroidery. She thought that if using charcoal and pencils wasn’t my style, something else would inspire me again.
Instead of trying to make perfect replicas of other people’s art, I learned to make art for myself, taking time to explore what worked for me and what didn’t.
My mother quickly became a mentor for me when it came to art, even though she had never been interested in drawing, herself. We explored art books sprawled across the dining room table and discussed new art ideas. We bonded during frequent museum visits, where we admired all kinds of exhibits, from 3D arts and sculpture to European paintings.
I began appreciating styles other than realism, the only style I had been taught to practice and admire. I became interested in complex patterned works, especially those of M.C. Escher. I could admire one of his drawings for days and still notice a new detail each time I looked at it.
I’d share my sketches with my mom, and she would push me to be more creative, encouraging bright colors and new, unique ideas. My style shifted from drawing still-lifes to fantasy-like drawings. I was slowly shedding what my art teacher had taught me. Instead of trying to make perfect replicas of other people’s art, I learned to make art for myself, taking time to explore what worked for me and what didn’t.
Learning to Take Risks
My mother had actually grown up exploring art with her father. My grandfather was skilled in the arts, working with various materials, but his favorite was traditional Chinese paintings. And now, he was becoming an art mentor for me, too.
When I was 11, my grandfather came to visit us in America and spent a few months at our house. On winter afternoons, my grandfather and I often silently drew together under the warm glow of the ceiling lamps on our dark wooden kitchen table. While his side of the table had long Chinese calligraphy brushes, small tubes of paint, and rice paper, mine had vibrant colored pencils and markers. He’d work on landscapes using muted colors, while I made semi-realistic color pencil drawings. We appreciated each other’s styles. As my grandfather aged, he lost the ability to concentrate enough to paint. With his frustration growing and his hands becoming unsteady, he eventually gave up trying to paint.
He would just sit on his stool, dozing off while I drew. My mother explained that it was natural for my grandfather’s artistic abilities to decline with age, and she told me not to upset him. Eventually, I started to feel like I was being thoughtless, leaving him alone while I continued to draw. So I came up with a plan.
My grandfather had always encouraged me to give painting a chance, so I tried to learn watercolors, hoping he would decide to give art another try, himself. I struggled with the new form. There were watery puddles of paint on the thick watercolor paper, and the shapes were splotchy and blurred. I hated how I had no control over anything, and the details blended into one another. But I was successful in engaging my grandfather. Instead of napping, he would watch me paint, but never say anything. I was frustrated with watercolor, but I decided to keep going, hoping that he’d say something about it, even if it was a critique.
One day, when I broke the paper with the amount of water I’d used to mix with the paint, he finally broke his silence.
“You’re adding too much water,” he said.
He switched my paper to a new one and told me how to properly use paint.
“You are trying to add too many details in the beginning. You cannot do that with paint. You need to draw the bigger shapes first, then do the smaller details after the larger backgrounds have dried.”
Taking the lead, he took the paintbrush and began making big shapes on the white paper.
Though he critiqued my work, he did so in a gentle way. Unlike my art teacher, who focused on my mistakes, my grandfather guided me toward improving. He patiently gave me tips on how to improve my piece and encouraged me to think about the process, not just the final product. When I wasn’t satisfied with a piece and wanted to redo it, he’d tell me to leave it as it is, because that’s part of the journey of creating art.
I slowly got the hang of using paint and brushes. But even more importantly, my grandfather taught me to venture out and try different media. And, because he always asked me questions about my art, such as why I chose to place an object at a certain angle, or why I decided to include a certain object, he pushed me to make purposeful choices.
Grateful for Many Teachers
Over time, I began developing my style, which is full of detail and symbolism. For me, making art can be a lot of different things: it can be a way to relax, a way I document a particular idea or time in my life, or just something fun to discuss with classmates and friends.
Since my first art class at 8 years old, I’ve come to learn a lot about art and myself, from each of my three “teachers.” My first art teacher taught me about realism and, honestly, showed me what I didn’t like: making perfect replicas. Although it was a negative experience, sometimes learning what you don’t want to do can be as important as learning what you do want to do.
My mom helped me rebuild confidence after my art class experience. She taught me to make art for myself and to take the time to explore what works for me and what doesn’t. And my grandfather taught me to take risks with art and explore new mediums I hadn’t practiced with before.
- Arts/Culture