I didn’t enroll in well-reviewed ink art workshop expecting a revelation; I just wanted to try something different. Imagine my trembling hands like leaves on a white sheet of paper as I hover my brush over the surface. My heart would do a little tap dance every time the ink touched down. A smear, a spill, or even a faceplant (on the painting’s part, not mine) was something I was half expecting. However, staring at a blank canvas—or, in this instance, rice paper—has a way of reducing mundane concerns. With each daring, wet stroke, whatever weight I was carrying dissolved.
Painting, so the saying goes, is a calming activity, but let’s not kid ourselves. For a while, there’s mayhem. Like coffee grounds under a dropped mug, ink spreads in chaotic circles, flowering. I reminded myself over and again, “If I mess up, I’m done.” But the teacher, a cloud-haired old woman, chuckled and told the class, “Let the mistake lead you.” Indignation escaped me. However, I embraced the unknown in some way. Eventually, I stopped trying to control the brush and started letting it move around on its own. In the event that lines spread out like river deltas, I would manipulate them into branches. Each misstep turned into an opportunity for an eerie beauty.
The only sound in the classroom one night was the gentle rustle of bristles. The air seemed to thin out as we were alone with our sloppy creations—the ink blotched, someone sneezed, and then we all laughed. Seeing something emerge from nothing can be an exhilarating experience. For artists, creating art was a way to carve out time for quiet practices like grinding ink and allowing their minds to wander. I started to notice that I was sleeping better and breathing easier by the third week. I felt a release of the anxieties that had been dragging me down like damp clothes.
I shifted tactics at work. Not every error was a disaster, and I didn’t stress out about emails. The discipline I honed while painting eventually crept into other areas of my life. Interestingly, no one had forewarned me that a small bit of ink could make you think twice before acting rashly. Because she is really anxious, my sister phoned, and I showed her how to paint a tree. Squinting at leaning trunks and leaves that slipped off the paper, we both finished with a sense of pride.
Taking an ink painting class won’t grant you superpowers or a new lease on life. Still, I was taken aback. A new coping mechanism, a technique to sort out the mental jumble, becomes available to you. Perhaps it’s the textures—the way black swoops over white—or the idea of releasing control when things go out of hand. In any case, ink trees are now covering my walls. Several uneven, a few elegant. Every stroke of the brush is evidence that life can twist and turn for the better.