Repainting My Labels

Ghosts from Year 9 art class that came back to haunt (and help) me as a 40-year-old woman last weekend

Mar 18, 2025

Last weekend, I did something that terrified me.

It had felt like such an easy ‘yes’ when I bought my ticket, but then… when the time came to leave… to actually go… I could feel myself resisting. I wanted to stay home. Stay in the comfort of the familiar.

Instead, I got in the car, typed the address into maps and set off towards the M1 Pacific Motorway.

Twenty-five minutes later, I gingerly walked into the studio, quietly introduced myself with a nervous smile (that I hoped looked relaxed), and took my seat.

When I was younger, I was always told that I wasn’t artistic.

I can’t actually remember the first time this was inferred or said directly to me, but I do recall a recurring theme of subtle commentary and blatant remarks throughout those years of me not being very good at art. Not having the natural ability or the talent for it. That it wasn’t my strength or forte. That it just wasn’t my thing and perhaps I should do other things instead.

This, of course, formed a belief.

From then on, I did not consider myself artistic.

And because of this, I also did not consider myself creative.

Yet here I was, on a Saturday afternoon, about to take part in a workshop to learn the basics of painting with watercolour.

Honestly, I don’t know what I was expecting but the universe clearly had its own lesson plan for me that day.

I sat down at the end of the larger of the two tables in the studio — a table of six. At first, two ladies were already sitting there too, but soon a group of four girlfriends arrived and the party of two very kindly relocated to the smaller table so the friends could all sit together. With me.

Another woman arrived solo (just like me), took the last seat at our table, and the workshop began.

It became very clear, very quickly, that I was sitting with a bunch of seasoned watercolour pros.

As I fumbled to figure out how to hold my paintbrush correctly, the rest of my table breezed through the first technique being taught… which also tripped me up. The kind workshop facilitator — herself an artist and maker of the very watercolour paints we were using — had to come over and show me what I was actually meant to be doing.

I could feel that all-too-familiar flush of embarrassment rise like flames on the insides of my cheeks and silently prayed that my face was not turning red. I felt like I was in Year 9 art class all over again. AKA: my own personal hell on earth.

‘I’m so shit at this. What am I even doing here?’ I asked myself as I attempted to try the technique again, this time correctly.

For the next three hours, the group moved through practising pages and pages of technique after technique, brushes swirling in glass vases with ever-changing water, paint palettes passed around over conversation and laughter.

For the next three hours, I moved through moments of frustration, battling with my inner critic, and wondering if I could hatch an escape plan where no one would notice me get up, slink out of the studio and drive away like I’d just robbed a bank.

The belief that I was not creative continued all the way through school, through my young adult years, into my thirties, and was only really dismantled a few short years ago when I finally acknowledged that my gift for storytelling actually did mean that I was creative.

But still, I persisted.

I remained seated and reminded myself that I was doing this workshop for fun. To learn something new for the joy of it. I was not setting out to be the next great watercolour painter, nor was I doing this to turn it into a business or make any money from it. And I certainly didn’t have to be amazing — let alone good — at my very first workshop learning this brand new thing. I was simply exploring this artistic medium to see if maybe I might enjoy it and want to make it a hobby.

So, I kept painting.

By the end of the workshop, I had learned fifteen new watercolour techniques. I had spent three hours painting. I had developed a deep respect for the beauty and romance of this modality. And — dare I say it — I’d had some bloody fun!

It needs to be said that I’m not afraid of being a beginner.

I love to learn. I am endlessly curious and enjoy the thrill of being educated on something (no matter how big or small) that I never knew before. Something to add to my mental library that may or may not become something I pass on to someone else or use for myself in the future.

But there’s something about art that feels different.
(And sport, but that’s another story.)

There’s more embarrassment that lives in that realm thanks to past experiences. The fear of looking stupid. That whatever I paint (or draw or sculpt) looks crap. The discomfort that comes with something that doesn’t come naturally to me. The subtle shade of shame that it’s something that I’m not very talented at nor very good at.

I may be able to call myself creative now but I struggle to call myself artistic.

I struggle to call myself an artist.

A creative, yes. But an artist? Nah, I just write words and tell stories. Hand the paintbrush and clay to someone else.

So, will I continue with my little fledgling watercolour journey?

I don’t know.

But I have dug out my brush tip paint pens from my desk drawer and for the past few evenings I’ve sat with a colouring book and let myself get lost in colours and brush strokes of a different type.

Kind of symbolic that I feel more comfortable painting within the lines when it comes to art.

I guess that’s just something to be aware of.

I don’t need to let it define me nor do I have to make any kind of grand meaning out of it and let it become part of my identity any more than it already has.

Instead, perhaps, I can simply continue to give myself permission to play and explore and do it for the fun of it (whatever artistic medium that might be). That it can look and feel however I want. That I can do it whenever I want. To remind myself that just because something doesn’t come easily or naturally doesn’t mean it can’t be enjoyable — especially if I’m only doing it for myself and no one else is ever going to see it.

And who knows, maybe one day, I’ll fall in love with having a paintbrush in my hand.

Crazier things have happened.