The triumph of hope over experience

Having just taken part in my third art workshop, I have decided it’s time to admit defeat. I am simply not artistic. I love art, but I cannot make it and should leave it to those with more talent than me, which is nearly everyone. The first workshop I attended involved using old letterpress stamps to form patterns and pithy, insightful phrases on interesting pieces of paper. I had thought that even I could do that, but all I managed to do was ruin lovely old pieces of sheet music that were far nicer before I got hold of them. And as for those phrases inexpertly stamped all over them – definitely more pathetic than pithy.

I then signed up for a gelli printing course because I’d seen how beautiful those prints can be. I have almost no recollection of that workshop. I think I’ve just blocked the whole thing out. It’s all a vague blur of paint-covered rollers, dried foliage and a jelly-like substance. Some exquisite prints were produced in that workshop, mine not being among them. In fact, my mangled pages were smuggled home and into the recycling bin to avoid further humiliation. You’d think that by now I had learned my lesson, but you’d be wrong.

My next misguided foray into the art world involved a day-long workshop learning how to make festive figures out of clay. The tutor was Katherine Kingdon and I’m a big fan of her clay figures, which are full of personality and warmth. Why I thought I was capable of producing anything worthwhile when I can’t even manage to add artistic flourishes to sheet music, I don’t know. Just deluded I suppose. There were some truly talented people in the class who produced wonderfully artistic pieces. Even the not so talented managed to create rather charming figures. I, however, was so ashamed of my blobby creations that I wanted to sneak out halfway through. My festive figures would have embarrassed any self-respecting 5-year-old. I’m just praying that they’ll break in the kiln.

So, what is next for the chronically unartistic? First, I need to admit that it’s just not meant to be. I know artists say that everyone can make art and that you improve with practice. And it’s supposedly very therapeutic, but I seem to be the exception: I find being so useless quite stressful and have decided that I can’t cope with the continued humiliation. No more workshops.

And yet…I’ve just noticed that there’s a course coming up in June teaching you to upholster a wooden crate. Surely that’s more of a craft than an art and even I can wrap fabric around foam and wield a staple gun? Deluded to the end.