The front door was locked when my sister and I arrived at Happy Medium for Figure Drawing 101 seven minutes late. The white sky was accented by dark, heavy clouds. Rain drizzled cold on our faces, too light to reach the ground. There was a sign taped to the blue door - “text to get in.” I delegated the task to my sister, Ariana, because my desire to be inside was so strong that it seemed to absolve me of the need to exert any effort to get in. Two minutes dragged while we waited for a response. A girl walked up beside us, also late, offering sweet, unburdened small talk that I was too anxious to engage in. Finally, at 9:12, a blonde woman holding an iced coffee opened the door for us on her way out of the building. The three of us walked up the dark stairway together, pausing in front of two unmarked closed doors, unsure which would be our portal into class. I gambled (correctly) and walked to the front to check in. The instructor was already speaking, class silent with their heads down, a chorus of charcoal pieces scratching paper. I scanned the room for a seat. Ariana whispered our names to an understanding woman behind an iPad, and we tiptoed past our classmates for the morning toward the last two available seats all the way in the back. The weather’s gloom somehow seeped inside, air thick, light hollow and gray. I didn’t know what we missed in the time since class had started but I was inconsolably worried that I’d never be able to catch up, certain that my entire artistic potential had been compromised. I looked over at other pads of paper, watching people wander their charcoal aimlessly across the page. Under other circumstances, in a different brain, you might think that would have soothed me. They’re just doodling, not even sketching, but my anger convinced me that I had missed exactly what I needed: a moment to settle, to play, to allow my emotions to freely roam the page, to learn how to press charcoal into paper so the weight was correct.
When the teacher began again, he talked through his process of grasping a figure, pinning it to a page. On the projector, he deconstructed and simplified the anatomy of a model: ovals for head and torso, a box for hips, two tubes for each limb (upper and lower), triangles for feet. I continued to mutter complaints to my sister when the teacher instructed the model to pose in 30 second intervals. Through furrowed brows, I searched for the curve of her spine, the line of action and distribution of weight. After 6 poses, I felt settled. New broad strokes of understanding enabled me to capture posture with more clarity. I learned that there was potential to evoke movement on paper (and that awareness alone was enough to inspire me in a new way, even if I wasn’t quite there yet).
What had me buzzing afterward was the idea of a beginner’s mindset - what that means to me and how valuable it feels to allow myself to be new at something. I celebrated my 31st birthday this week, a number that feels ugly because it’s high and prime, and also because I maybe would have expected to have the details of my life ironed out by now. Instead, I have shaken every single thing up to forge a new path.
I am putting myself in the role of the beginner a lot right now, into a place that’s deeply uncomfortable for the insecure perfectionist inside of me. Between hiring a coach to help me launch an entirely new career from scratch and learning how to draw and look and release expectations, I am becoming someone who is willing to learn, to start.
As flowers begin to adorn branches of trees scattered throughout the city and blue skies peek out from behind clustered clouds, I am reminded of the beauty and vitality that exists in fresh starts. Right beside the fear of being foolish is the courage and drive to learn something new. And it turns out that being foolish isn’t so scary, at all - in fact, it’s liberating. You give yourself new ways to experience joy and witness your own growth. You develop an ability to laugh at yourself, compassionately, not take yourself so seriously. Learning something new (especially if it’s just for the hell of it) can be an invitation for lightheartedness.
At 30, I left a career I nurtured for a decade. I spent the past year grieving old selves, uncovering wounds that needed tending, reorienting, recalibrating, figuring out which direction to go in so I could create a life that lights me up. I didn’t even consider the abyss into which I dove (head first, with abandon) but now I am swimming in it. Sometimes the waters are dark and murky and sometimes the sun shines right on my face and I remember what all of this is for.
If you followed your curiosity somewhere new, where might that lead you? How could we use the beginner’s mindset to see the world as a playground?
Im so proud of you, and love reading your work.