Wet Paint Class

I dreamt I was in school. It was just to pass the time, an evening watercolor class, but it was really packed with students. The instructor carried a very important air, but suggested we all try to paint something of a grassy landscape, just to get started, and it was meant as just a simple exercise. I found myself in a kind of search for materials around the room, while everyone seemed to going full-tilt with whatever they could lay their hands on, leaving me with nothing at hand for myself to use.

I made furtive attempts to collect just SOMETHING to paint on, and with, while I watched some people going crazy with huge highway-sign sized monstrosities and bejeweled backdrops. A lot of it seemed really great, and I was excited for moments, just to find no one was really looking at what they had, but so very confident what they were doing was really great.

I went from room to room and then out into the street to scare up paint and paper of ANY SIZE or color, just so I could get started. I had seen so many great ideas working out in the other’s paint, only to see them lose it again because they didn’t know when to stop with what there was. I tried to catch the ear of the instructor, who wasn’t listening, but he chatted on, also with no one else listening. I said to no one, “It’s really so much about just stopping at the right moment. But then so many times it’s too soon or too late, isn’t it?” But then all the ears seemed deaf and self-satisfied in mutual congratulations.

After an odyssey of attempts to extract some materials through my scavenger hunt, and many near finds and slip-ups, in desperation I returned to find the whole lot of them had folded up and abandoned all their work, now dripping color all over the floor. So I took up some of those abandoned materials, folded some paper and made a little painted yellow hat and inscribed it with a few wet umber strokes.

Along came a very fashionable lady, who declared she LOVED it and wanted to show it to some of her other folks. I couldn’t quite make out what I’d written in block letters, but I think I wrote, “This HAT is NOT for general USE.” Or maybe I just wrote “NOT A HAT.” It just seemed a good idea, right?

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Any way, I felt the sense of helpless desperation leave me, just the way all the paint in the abandoned art was flowing across the floor, (and the little hat on the way out the door!) while I picked up the paint again, off the floor with a good brush and some nice clean paper.

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