Barefoot in the grass

Editor’s note: 225 magazine enrolled staff writer Sarah Young in a day-long painting class with local artist Julie Dupre Buckner and asked her to write about it.

For years I’ve been a mere bystander in the world of art, content as an appreciator and nothing more. Art and the artists who create it mesmerize me, but I never imagined I’d one day find myself staring down the business end of a blank canvas. But here I am…

It started with an e-mail. “I want you to sign up for this painting class I heard about,” my editor wrote. “This class is supposed to be amazing. I saw a painting a friend’s wife did and I think it would lend itself to a great first-person story about your experience. At the very least you’ll have a unique piece of art to hang above your couch.”

Great, I thought. Just one problem: I haven’t painted anything, ever. Unless of course you count the walls in my bedroom, or my toenails, and in both instances I should have hired a professional. Plus, I’ve never been a big fan of matching art to my couch. That’s for people who don’t get it, who don’t understand or appreciate the process that is art. Most of the pieces in my meager collection generally fall into the realm of “I don’t care how weird it is, if I can’t live without it, I have to have it.” I have several pieces I’ve yet to find final resting places for, like a certain ceramic pig I purchased from a show last year at the LSU School of Art gallery.

Nevertheless, I was determined to make the most of it, so I called artist Julie Dupre Buckner and signed up for her Saturday morning beginner’s abstract class. For a fee of $125, I would get a full day of hands-on painting training.

I was told to bring a roll of paper towels, a TV tray for my supplies and a stretched, primed canvas. Sounded easy enough.

I dressed in shabby clothes I wouldn’t mind getting paint all over, packed up the car and headed out.

Buckner is by trade an extremely talented portrait artist, but has dabbled in abstract art as well. Her class promised to teach me how to blend, drip, splatter and pour to draw art out of chaos and help me create “an over-the-sofa decorative abstract painting.” Buckner lives in Plaquemine, but held the class at a friend’s house in Broadmoor subdivision.

I was encouraged to consult a photo album of ideas on the kitchen table for inspiration. I was a bit reluctant to thumb through a bunch of pictures in the hopes of finding something to replicate. That’s not art. That’s plagiarism with a paintbrush, I thought, and I wanted no part of it.

As more students began pouring into the tiny kitchen it became immediately clear that I was the only one who felt this way. Many of the students arrived with magazine clippings and postcards from local gallery shows, wanting to replicate paintings by Lisa diStefano and Lauren Barksdale. Not wanting to rock the boat, I selected a photograph and kept my mouth shut.

The sun was bright as we set up shop outside. Buckner mixed my paint, tacked up my “inspiration” in front of me and offered some brief direction before moving onto the next student. With my paintbrush at the ready I stared quizzically at the canvas hoping it too would tell me what to do, where to begin. But alas it just stared back at me with its giant beige expanse.

I finally, hesitantly started to fill the blankness with color. First came a vibrant orange, then navy, followed by turquoise and cobalt. It wasn’t looking like much, but Buckner, after checking on my progress, wanted to show me how to create a dripping effect using a squirt bottle and a paper towel to really bring my painting to life. The water began peeling away the painting’s layers like an onion, and one by one a new color was revealed. I marveled at how my awkward attempt to be creative went from nothing to something. I glanced around at the canvases around me and saw everyone else’s paintings were taking shape as well. They looked nothing like the original photographs they’d selected. The personal touch and uniqueness of each artist came through.

The sun rose higher and we started walking around and watching each other paint, offering compliments, asking questions. Two of the ladies painting beside me, I found out, were relatives of one of my colleagues, and the woman painting directly opposite me turned out to be the mother of one of my favorite local artists, Clark Derbes. By lunchtime we had formed a tight bond and sat around and talked while eating our delicious lunch (included with our registration fee) before heading back outside to complete our respective “masterpieces.”

Painting continued well into the late afternoon, and as we neared the end of the day several people, myself included, began having trouble finding a logical end to their paintings. Mine just didn’t seem finished, but the sun was going down and everyone was starting to pack up for the day, so I just decided to end it. Probably not the best strategy, but I figured I could always finish it at home.

After packing up my things and washing my brushes I wandered around taking in everyone’s work. They were all so different and not a single one looked like the photo that inspired it, a fact I was relieved to see. I was astonished, however, at the level of talent in these so-called “beginners.” Not bad for a day’s worth of painting lessons.

It was getting late so I said my goodbyes and headed home. There I removed the damp canvas from my trunk and trucked it inside. I laid it flat on the dining room table and examined it.

It wasn’t half bad, I thought. A little sloppy, perhaps, and you could definitely detect a sense of hesitation in the brush strokes. It certainly wasn’t the work of a confident artist, more like a fit of reluctance.

I decided then that I would never make it as a painter. I’ve always been more comfortable working in black and white, crafting letters into words, painting mental pictures rather than watercolor ones. Words are my true medium. Painting for me, was too chaotic. There was no logical order to its madness, no delete button, no spell check. Perhaps that makes me too much of a control freak, but so be it. At least I can say that I tried it once. I doubt I will be taking painting lessons again anytime soon, but I own a painting to serve as a reminder of my brief foray as an artist.

Today, my painting hangs on the wall in my entryway and greets all those who come to visit. It’s by no means a work of art, but it reminds me of that simple day I stood barefoot in the grass, paintbrush in hand with paint in my hair.