Twenty Minutes

I’ve noticed something that happens about twenty minutes into an art class.

When people first arrive, there’s usually a lot of energy in the room. Friends are catching up, people are choosing seats, some looking at the project, pouring a glass of wine or water, and wondering what they’ve gotten themselves into.

There’s often a little nervousness too.

Someone will tell me they haven’t painted since elementary school. Someone else wants to know if they’re using the right brush. And almost without fail, I hear some version of, “I’m not very creative, so we’ll see how this goes.”

Then we get started.

And about twenty minutes later, the room changes.

It’s not dramatic. In fact, I’m not sure anyone else even notices it.

People settle in.

The conversations are still going, but they’re softer. Everyone is leaning a little closer to their work. Brushes move more slowly. The questions about whether something is “right” begin to disappear.

People start making their own decisions.

Maybe that blue needs a little green.

Maybe the flower would look better over here.

Maybe that accidental drip actually looks kind of interesting.

This is one of my favorite parts of teaching. There’s a point when people stop thinking so much about making art and simply start making it. I’ve wondered why that little shift feels so good.

I think part of it is that most of us spend our days making decisions that have consequences. We answer emails. We manage schedules. We solve problems. We take care of people. We keep track of things. Then you sit down with a paintbrush and suddenly the biggest decision in front of you is whether you want more yellow.

There’s something wonderful about that.

It doesn’t matter if you’re particularly good at painting. It doesn’t matter if you’ve taken art classes before. For a little while, your attention is completely occupied by something that doesn’t need to be productive or important.

You’re just there.

Painting.

I see this especially with people who come to our art classes in Los Gatos convinced they’re going to be the least creative person in the room. At first, they look around to see what everyone else is doing. Then, little by little, they stop looking. They become absorbed in their own work. That’s when things get interesting.

Colors change. People take chances. Someone decides not to follow my example at all, which I secretly love. The paintings begin to look less alike and more like the people making them.

By the end of the evening, the room feels completely different than it did when everyone arrived. People are relaxed. They’re walking around looking at each other’s work. They’re laughing about the things that went wrong and admiring the things that unexpectedly went right. Some people are wrestling with a section that isn't turning out the way they imagined. There may be a little frustration mixed in with the laughter, and that's part of creating too.

I remind people that there is almost always an awkward stage in a painting, a point when you're convinced you've ruined it. It is often a turning point and you work through it. Sometimes you don't. Sometimes you decide you like the unexpected version better.

Three hours can disappear when we’re fully engaged in something.

Maybe that’s part of why creative time feels so restorative. It gives our brains somewhere else to go for a while. Not to another screen or another task, but to color, movement, curiosity and the simple pleasure of making something.

You can experience that in a painting workshop, of course, but you can also find it gardening, cooking, sewing, writing, arranging flowers, playing music or doodling in a notebook. The activity isn’t really the important part. It’s that moment when you become so interested in what you’re doing that you forget about everything else for a while.

For me, it seems to happen at about twenty minutes.

And every time I notice it, I smile.

A Thought to Take With You

Sometimes a little creative time is all it takes to turn down the noise and remember how good it feels to become completely absorbed in something you enjoy.

Until next time... keep noticing.