Paint Class Confessions: Why I Tell People to Put a L.I.D. On It

Tracing paper isn’t real art.

Going over someone else’s work is cheating.

If you didn’t emerge from the womb holding a paintbrush, you should probably just stop now.

I hear those statements and say… absolutely not.

Tracing a line is not a crime. It is practice. It is repetition. It is muscle memory quietly clocking in and doing the work while your inner critic is too busy running its mouth. I am Team Creativity at any cost. Any mark. Any moment. Do what you can with what you have, right now.

When I try something new, I don’t need “real skills.” I need an attitude. And not the kind where I take off my hoop earrings because someone just cut me off in traffic. I mean the mindset. The story I tell myself before I even start.

Not being good right now does not mean you will never be good. It means you are early. That’s it. The secret sauce is boring, powerful, and wildly underrated: practice.

Practice does not make perfect. Practice builds experience.

It’s like walking through a new neighborhood. At first, everything feels unfamiliar. Over time, you learn the street signs. You notice where that one black squirrel hangs out. You discover the place with the really good cafecito. Eventually, you know exactly where you’re going. And sometimes, once you do, you bring other people along.

That’s what I hope to do with my art classes.

Here’s what my art class actually looks like.

Corporate Wellness Art and Relax

A room full of people who are half excited, half terrified. People are already apologizing to the canvas.

“I’m so bad at drawing.”

“I can’t even draw a stick figure.”

“Where are the drinks? Because I’m going to need one to survive this.”

Enter the Artist’s Oath.

With kids, I ask, “Does anyone know what an oath is?” I explain that it’s a promise. Then we repeat together:

“I promise not to judge my picture or my neighbor’s picture until the end of class.”

They giggle. They look at each other. They realize they can absolutely roast themselves later if they want, but for now, they’re safe.

Adults need this oath even more.

What it really means is: trust the process.

And wow, do I see everything.

The ones who jump ahead immediately and freestyle their way into chaos. The ones who talk through the entire class but never actually paint. The ones who give up halfway through and ask me to finish it for them, like I’m a fairy godmother with acrylics.

My job is gently, lovingly and repeatedly reminding them to slow down. Stay on course. Listen. And when doubt shows up, put a L.I.D. on it. Let it dry.

Drying is underrated. In painting and in life.

If you think you messed up, let it dry. Dry paint can be edited. Changed. Reworked. Just like writing. You never turn in your first draft, you revise.

Some people get it. Some people still give up anyway. And that’s okay.

Because the message never changes. You just have to try. You have to trust the process. You have to listen, adjust, pause, and try again. And if all else fails, you are standing in a room with an actual artist whose literal job is to help you find your way back.

I always hear, “You probably tell everyone their painting looks good.”

And I usually answer a question with a question:

How did trying make you feel?

Did you want to keep going?

Was this your first time?

Did you honestly expect to be an expert immediately?

Give yourself grace. Permit yourself to be new. Let yourself dry. Be still. And if none of that works, don’t worry. I have a baby wipe. We can wipe the slate clean and start all over again.

That, my friends, is the real fake it ’til you make it.

So if you’ve been waiting to feel “ready,” “talented,” or “good enough” before you start, consider this your permission slip.

You don’t need perfection. You don’t need permission. You don’t need to be fearless. You just need to be willing.

Willing to try.

Willing to practice.

Willing to make a mess.

Willing to let it dry.

And if you want to practice in a room where you’re supported, guided, encouraged, and occasionally handed a baby wipe, you already know where to find me.

Bring your curiosity. Bring your nerves. Bring your unfinished, imperfect, wildly promising self.

We’ll take it from there.

Enjoy!

-Erica