Permission to Paint

For many years I owned a beautiful set of oil paints that I did not use.

An old boyfriend bought them for me one Christmas. He knew that I carried a deep yearning to become an artist, and it was his way of saying he took that seriously.

The paints were artist-grade oils in a handmade solid mahogany case with brass fittings and a leather handle. When you opened the case, a lift-out tray revealed orderly rows of colour: vivid cadmiums, earthy ochres and umbers, each tube sitting neatly in its own wooden groove. Beneath the tray was another compartment containing the mysterious paraphernalia of oil painting: brushes, palette knives, small bottles of oil and medium; and in the lid, a hand-waxed palette.

The case stayed in my life longer than the lovely boyfriend who bought it for me. Every now and then I would open it and admire the smell of the wood, the contours and craftsmanship, the colours of the paints. It was, in every sense, the perfect painter’s kit.

The problem was that I was not a perfect painter.

Or any kind of painter.

So I did not open the paints - I kept them preserved in their perfectly pristine state for the day I thought I would deserve them.

After a while, admiring the case became less enjoyable and more exposing. It sat there as a reminder of my inaction. Eventually I packed it away with some old paperwork and the abandoned dream of being an artist. I tried to forget about the case. And the dream.

Years later, I finally did learn to paint with oils. By then I understood that paints are tools. They are meant to be squeezed out, mixed together, wiped off rags and replaced when they run out. The point is not to preserve them but to use them.

So I went back to the wooden case, determined at last to release those paints from their unsullied tubes.

When I opened it, I discovered that time had already done that work.

Several of the tubes had split open and thick crusts of dried oil paint had leaked across the mahogany grooves. Some colours had hardened into solid lumps. Others had formed strange golden skins where the oil had separated and dried against the wood.

The perfect set of paints had destroyed itself.

I cleaned the mahogany as best I could and salvaged what remained. And strangely, I felt grateful - grateful that I had listened to my inner voice protesting the packing away of my dream; and grateful that, in a way, the paints had staged their own protest. They had refused to sit forever in an immaculate, untouched state. Before I could bring myself to ruin the wooden case with paint and turpentine, they had done it themselves.

It was a good lesson.

Art materials are not precious artefacts. They are tools for thinking, experimenting and making a mess.

I remain thankful to the kindly boyfriend who bought me that exquisite case of paints. It was a generous and thoughtful gift. But what I needed at that point in my life was not the classiest kit money could buy.

What I needed was permission: permission to make a mess, permission to waste materials, permission to be a beginner.

When people return to art, what they usually lack is not equipment. Many of us already have sketchbooks, pencils, brushes and paints tucked away in cupboards and drawers.

What we lack is permission to use them.

Do you have any materials waiting for your permission?