On painting and writing.

At a whim, I got "Watercolour Painting for Dummies" yesterday, under the staunch disapproval of Melissa Tan. She knows me and my fickle-mindedness (i.e. I would pore over the book like no tomorrow, and then bury it under my mountain of books without even touching the paint).

To prove her wrong and to honour the first ever Dummies book that I have ever bought, I unearthed the old box of Buncho watercolours lying within my art supplies chest of drawers and started wetting some art block scraps and dabbing watercolour on them. A technique which is known as "wet-on-wet", thank you "Watercolour Painting for Dummies".

I looked at our antique-y lamp in the livingroom for a while and proceeded to draw it after two seconds when I got tired of staring at it. Outlined the shape of the lamp. Hmm. Squished a satisfying splat of paint into the palette. Dabbled my semi-new brush into the colour. Reflected upon the fact that the semi-new brushes were by products of an earlier, hauntingly familiar whim.

Then I hovered the brush above the wetted white.

I watched as the drop of paint contacted the puddle. Almost hungrily, it dispersed with a vengeance, a blot of purple, reaching its minuscule tentacles out, out, out, in desperation, before its time ran out and it could no longer run. The drop expanded to almost three times its original size till its activity came to a still, resulting in a furball of sorts.

Intrigued, I administered two more drops. And then some.

The painting was quite a disaster. In place of what should have been a antique-y looking lamp was Mickey Mouse and his entire hairy clan. Discouraged by the disparaging result, I left the set of paints outside and came back in to blog. To return to familiar territory. Writing.

In fact, I was musing just now, sometimes I do give too little credit to my writing. Trying to paint, and failing miserably at it, had at least triggered the realization of the similarities between writing and painting.

Writing is an art. Painting is an art. Both involve a two-step of being able to observe, and to translate that observation into a concrete piece of expression. Words in a passage are like paint on a canvas. While trying to paint, I was frustrated that I couldn't see the different layers of colour upon a single object. I had no control on the paints, I couldn't do dark when I needed dark, or light when I needed light. The brush had no life in my hand.

But writing. My observation skills still need to be honed, but at least I have no trouble most of the time to express what I want to say, clearly and comprehensibly. Being able to compare the helplessness in painting with the relative effortlessness in writing, I am struck with a sudden gratefulness and appreciation of this gift. Hey, I can write! My first paid article is going on air shortly (will let you all know when it's out)! I've written a book, although it is stuck in its never-ending loop of proofreading!

Praise the Writing God.

The reflection does not end here though. I started writing since I was quite young. Seven? Eight?And I kept a journal for the six years that I was in high school, writing in English for the first five, and upon realization that writing in Chinese actually saves a hell lot of paper, in Chinese during the sixth. Academic writing took over during university days. Then I took up blogging. The flow, from brain to fingers to keyboard to screen, is seamless simply because I am so used to expressing myself with words that it's the most natural thing in the world.

And I want to be able to paint masterpieces the first half hour I learn painting, just by reading "Watercolour Painting for Dummies?"

Yeah. Right.