How I Learned to Paint (Without Learning to Paint)

Since childhood, I was told I couldn’t draw. Not “struggled with,” not “needed practice” — couldn’t.

Straight-A student, top of the class, yet my art grades were a parade of D’s. My horses looked like cockroaches mid-meltdown. My “beach scene” was two mud puddles fighting a turf war. Teachers scolded me—not for laziness, but for the sheer audacity of failing so spectacularly while excelling everywhere else.

But I never stopped loving art. I devoured art history, haunted galleries, clung to brushstrokes and color palettes like lifelines. Art was my solace, even as I was told I had no right to create it.

Then I quit.

Not art—just the delusion that I needed permission. If I couldn’t draw a straight line to save my life, I’d draw crooked ones to save my sanity. I started documenting my moods: not the day’s events, but the storm systems inside my ribs. No one could tell me my sadness “didn’t look like sadness.” Who were they to judge the shape of my chaos?

And somewhere in those unapologetic scribbles, I discovered:

1. I could improve—but only when I stopped measuring myself against rulers snapped across my knuckles.

2. I could draw—but only when no one stood over my shoulder, dissecting my lines into “right” and “wrong.”

3. I could create joy—not for grades, not for praise, but because my hands needed to speak in a language beyond words.

Below: Evidence. Not of talent, but of rebellion.

2025/02/26

2025/02/07

2025/02/04

2025/01/30

2024/12/02

2025/01/28

2024/11/17

2024/10/15

2024/09/27

2024/09/09

2024/09/07

2024/09/06

2024/09/02

2024/08/31

2024/07/15

2024/07/14

2024/07/10

2024/06/10

2024/05/30

2024/03/28

2023/12/16

20/10/2023

Witness all of my progress in my My Art Diary.