The Inept Malcontent
On the weekend I conducted a contemporary-watercolour workshop for
twelve middle-aged women. This will absolutely be one of my last classes
ever. These enterprises have become less and less enjoyable over the
years. One goes through all the demonstrations, like a performing
monkey, under the glazed eyes of the dull audience, who have each paid
for the privilege of ignoring one's advice, and who couldn't aspire to
follow the demonstrations even if they did possess a modicum of talent
or aesthetic understanding. For the most part, they wander back to their
work-tables and ignore everything that has just been shown to them,
content to paddle about aimlessly with the coloured mud on their sodden
paper. It is no more than an outing for them, after all - an
entertaining day of: 'Just having a bit of fun with paint'. All very
well, one may say - but, in which case, get yourselves another clown to
cavort for you.
Over the decades I have found that there is nothing pricklier than the amateur who suddenly has to face the fact that their cherished little repertoire of poor, clichéd scrawls has a very long way to go before it even begins to pass muster. One such person graced this recent workshop. She was a large-framed woman in her late-forties, with glasses and a scowling, beet-red face, under which a massive cleft chin jutted. We got off to a bad start immediately. She'd been in the room for all of five minutes and I walked over to ask her if we might have met before, as she did look a little familiar.
"No!" she snapped, "I just look like every other Irish person on the planet." I beat a hasty retreat to another part of the room.
As the day unfolded, like a musty old sleeping bag, she became angrier and angrier with her own incompetence, for which she obviously blamed me, as it soon became apparent. The class clearly did not meet her expectations - in other words, the fact that she couldn't suddenly obtain a recipe to enable her to paint like me infuriated her.
"This is terrible!" she growled at one point, "I came here to learn techniques to make my work better, and all I'm ending up with is the same kind of paintings I always make!" She threw down her brush in irritation. I pointed out that I had demonstrated quite a lot of techniques for the class. I refrained from pointing out the impossibility of making a silk purse out of a pig's arse.
"Well, the techniques are certainly not working!" she spat. I gazed down at the poorly executed monstrosity on her piece of paper. It looked like a deformed goblin's head, with a massively swollen forehead and mismatched, squinting eyes, daubed in red and brown swirly strokes - but I have a horrible idea that it was meant to represent the woman's partner, whose photograph sat meekly on the table, next to the horrible mess.
A little later, she complained about the way that she had blocked in the hair of this monstrosity. I suggested a very sensible and simple solution, which would help sort it out - I even demonstrated this on a scrap piece of paper, so that she merely had to follow the example. I left her to it and walked down the table to the next student, only to hear the woman yell behind me.
"Oh my god! That didn't work at all!... This is ruined now, actually! Just ruined!" I turned to see that she had attempted to follow my advice, but with such cack-handed clumsiness that it was doomed to failure. Naturally, she was attempting to shift the blame for her shitty ineptitude onto me - in front of the entire class. I ignored the tantrum and left her to it. In her fury, she continued to scrub the saturated paper with a fat brush. Unsurprisingly, the paper disintegrated under the onslaught; this would also be blamed on me, I felt certain.
The afternoon wore on and on, like a nagging toothache. The cleft-chinned behemoth sulked and grimaced for the entire day. But finally the class ground to a much-welcomed end.
I locked up and made my way to the nearby train station. To my horror, the sullen malcontent was standing on the platform. She saw me as the train swept in and followed me in to the same crowded carriage. Some seats became available and I sat down. She sat opposite me, clattering her bags of art materials down around our feet. Christ, I thought, is there no end to the torment?
"Well, THAT was pretty much a waste of time," she spat, through the same scowl she had worn all day. Inwardly, I agreed, wholeheartedly. Outwardly, I offered, "Well, it does take a very long time to master the medium, after all." This seemed to make her angrier, so I kept my trap shut for the rest of the ride. A couple of stations along, I was heartened to see that she rose to leave. She checked her pockets, with characteristic grimace, then her bags, becoming more frantic with each rummage.
"My purse is gone!" she announced, "Where did I put it?" I made a cursory glance left and right beside her, but didn't see it anywhere.
"Someone has stolen my purse!" she snapped, "I must have put it down on the seat and someone has stolen it." We arrived at her station and she had no option but to leave the carriage. As the train continued, I watched her storm down the platform, and I thought that it couldn't have happened to a more deserving clod.
Over the decades I have found that there is nothing pricklier than the amateur who suddenly has to face the fact that their cherished little repertoire of poor, clichéd scrawls has a very long way to go before it even begins to pass muster. One such person graced this recent workshop. She was a large-framed woman in her late-forties, with glasses and a scowling, beet-red face, under which a massive cleft chin jutted. We got off to a bad start immediately. She'd been in the room for all of five minutes and I walked over to ask her if we might have met before, as she did look a little familiar.
"No!" she snapped, "I just look like every other Irish person on the planet." I beat a hasty retreat to another part of the room.
As the day unfolded, like a musty old sleeping bag, she became angrier and angrier with her own incompetence, for which she obviously blamed me, as it soon became apparent. The class clearly did not meet her expectations - in other words, the fact that she couldn't suddenly obtain a recipe to enable her to paint like me infuriated her.
"This is terrible!" she growled at one point, "I came here to learn techniques to make my work better, and all I'm ending up with is the same kind of paintings I always make!" She threw down her brush in irritation. I pointed out that I had demonstrated quite a lot of techniques for the class. I refrained from pointing out the impossibility of making a silk purse out of a pig's arse.
"Well, the techniques are certainly not working!" she spat. I gazed down at the poorly executed monstrosity on her piece of paper. It looked like a deformed goblin's head, with a massively swollen forehead and mismatched, squinting eyes, daubed in red and brown swirly strokes - but I have a horrible idea that it was meant to represent the woman's partner, whose photograph sat meekly on the table, next to the horrible mess.
A little later, she complained about the way that she had blocked in the hair of this monstrosity. I suggested a very sensible and simple solution, which would help sort it out - I even demonstrated this on a scrap piece of paper, so that she merely had to follow the example. I left her to it and walked down the table to the next student, only to hear the woman yell behind me.
"Oh my god! That didn't work at all!... This is ruined now, actually! Just ruined!" I turned to see that she had attempted to follow my advice, but with such cack-handed clumsiness that it was doomed to failure. Naturally, she was attempting to shift the blame for her shitty ineptitude onto me - in front of the entire class. I ignored the tantrum and left her to it. In her fury, she continued to scrub the saturated paper with a fat brush. Unsurprisingly, the paper disintegrated under the onslaught; this would also be blamed on me, I felt certain.
The afternoon wore on and on, like a nagging toothache. The cleft-chinned behemoth sulked and grimaced for the entire day. But finally the class ground to a much-welcomed end.
I locked up and made my way to the nearby train station. To my horror, the sullen malcontent was standing on the platform. She saw me as the train swept in and followed me in to the same crowded carriage. Some seats became available and I sat down. She sat opposite me, clattering her bags of art materials down around our feet. Christ, I thought, is there no end to the torment?
"Well, THAT was pretty much a waste of time," she spat, through the same scowl she had worn all day. Inwardly, I agreed, wholeheartedly. Outwardly, I offered, "Well, it does take a very long time to master the medium, after all." This seemed to make her angrier, so I kept my trap shut for the rest of the ride. A couple of stations along, I was heartened to see that she rose to leave. She checked her pockets, with characteristic grimace, then her bags, becoming more frantic with each rummage.
"My purse is gone!" she announced, "Where did I put it?" I made a cursory glance left and right beside her, but didn't see it anywhere.
"Someone has stolen my purse!" she snapped, "I must have put it down on the seat and someone has stolen it." We arrived at her station and she had no option but to leave the carriage. As the train continued, I watched her storm down the platform, and I thought that it couldn't have happened to a more deserving clod.
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