ShareThisI have no talent in the visual arts, but I did spend a year in art school just to make sure. I remember the first day of my required drawing class. I was well prepared with my giant pad of butcher paper and my little plastic tackle box with additional tools of the trade -- pastels, colored pencils, charcoal -- none of which I had ever touched.
I walked to class, my shoulder-length hair blowing in the Berkeley breeze, got to the studio and found a spot with good light. Actually, it was near an open window and I like fresh air. I set up my easel like the others, which were arranged in a circle around the room's periphery. I opened my little box of colors waiting for the professor to set a vase or some form of still life on the pedestal in the center of the room.
I wasn't paying too much attention when a young woman in a kimono walked to the middle of the room, stepped on the platform and slipped off her robe. Obviously, it got my attention, but it wasn't for the reason you are thinking. I was totally freaked out because I knew that I couldn't draw a person and I was about to fail my first class.
Everyone else began drawing. I tried hiding behind my easel, hoping that the professor wouldn't see me pondering how to start. As luck would have it, he was standing right behind me.
"Do we have a problem, young man?" he asked in a totally placating tone. I turned to him, nodded and replied, "Where's the bowl of fruit?" He looked down at me, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and started rummaging through my pristine supply box.
He took out a bottle of India ink and popped off the top, somewhat flamboyantly throwing it over his shoulder. He then found a twig on the floor, which he put into the bottle of ink. He then took out a little note pad from his pocket. I thought he was going to write me up for something. Instead, he ripped out a piece of paper and taped it to my drawing board. He handed me the bottle and twig and said, "Now draw what you see."
That was a very freeing moment for me. I was no longer constricted by having to draw an actual person. How could anyone do that with a twig and some ink on a little scrap of paper? As it turns out, I could.
My professor gave me new tools and removed the restriction of my work having to fit into the same category as the other students'. What I created with my little stick and black ink resembled a human being, and I was actually proud of myself. It taught me that creativity comes in many forms.
The experience of fearing failure and then being redirected and encouraged to try a different way was totally empowering. Answers to life are found when we put aside what we know and experiment.
(Dr. Barton Goldsmith, a marriage and family therapist in Westlake, Calif., is the author, most recently, of "Emotional Fitness at Work." He also hosts "Emotional Fitness" on NPR. E-mail him at barton(at)bartongoldsmith.com.)
EMOTIONAL FITNESS
