A Black Saturday Workshop

You might well remember this place… that is, if you follow me and read my posts. This is where the art market was held, in a former school building. It’s on the list to be demolished.

Today there was a workshop on painting without wishes or brushes. The last one must have taken place a few years ago. The stories I’d heard about it were very enthusiastic, so I decided to go along. What can I say? It was very disappointing, and I wasn’t the only one who felt that way, even though I didn’t say so. Sometimes a face speaks volumes. Of course, I learnt nothing again, simply because they assume I already know everything. I started by fiddling about with a window squeegee. Naturally, that didn’t work either, because the oilcloth was bulging beneath my bit of paper, which was also too small for the squeegee. The cheap poster paint wasn’t a success either, because the drier it got, the less colour remained. The quality of the acrylic paint intended for workshops was also appalling. Old, spoiled paint or even paint that had already set solid in the tubes. The participants complained bitterly, and I was handed more and more unusable tubes, which I simply threw in the bin.
And no, I wasn’t the organiser of this workshop.

What I’d expected were large sheets of paper and the chance to paint on the floor or on large tables. Instead, we were left with bits of paper even smaller than an A4 sheet, and of course a paintbrush like that simply wouldn’t fit on them properly. I also found it particularly irritating that we were first asked to sit and watch a whole load of videos on YouTube about what you could use for painting – a waste of time, and it also takes away the spontaneity of just having a go and seeing how it turns out.

I decided to stick mainly to black paint.
‘Are you going through a dark period?’ someone asked. I said yes, because that’s exactly how I felt.

🤔

I do not like to waste food to paint with.

Those three underneath can easily be made within one hour. Four more hours to kill...

The organisers wanted to exhibit the works. I’m sorry to say, but I don’t find them particularly impressive, even when I look closely. The worst thing is that there are people among them who are incredibly talented painters. Poor-quality materials and scribbles on tiny pieces of paper (supposedly just for practice) aren’t inspiring.
As there wasn’t enough space, some of the work ended up in the cupboard. One of the attendees said what I was thinking: ‘I’ll bin it next week.’ And that’s exactly what I did with my latest daub. If I were to take it home, it would just end up in the bin.

"Which one is where your heart lies?" said one of those present.

I pointed to the largest one with the most black.
If, like me, you’re wondering where that red shape came from, I can’t tell you. It’s most likely a smudge from my hand or shirt.

“I thought as much,” she said, “that’s exactly you.”

By the way, I added a little extra red just for her.

Long story short: I wasted my time.

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