It’s Not Wrong…

One of the unexpected gifts of making art is discovering how differently people see the world.

I was reminded of that during a week-long watercolor workshop in Vermont. The days were filled with painting, conversations, and quiet observation, while the evenings belonged to my children. Surrounded by the beauty of Vermont, I expected to learn new watercolor techniques. Instead, I came away with something much more valuable.

Perspective.

The group included artists with remarkably different backgrounds and levels of experience—from beginners picking up a brush for the first time to accomplished professional artists and architects. Everyone approached painting differently, and that diversity became one of the most inspiring parts of the week.

I watched people struggle through difficult compositions that seemed impossible to rescue, only to transform them into beautiful paintings through patience and persistence. (I was one of those people.) Others created loose, atmospheric watercolors that felt effortless. Every conversation revealed a different way of seeing.

As we worked, we naturally began asking one another questions.

Why did you choose that composition?

Why simplify this shape?

Where do your ideas come from?

At first, I answered without thinking very deeply about it. But the more we talked, the more I realized I had never really stopped to consider my own artistic instincts.

Several people described my work using words I had never applied to it myself: graphic, modern, Arts & Crafts, subject-driven. I found those descriptions fascinating because they weren't intentional, yet they rang true.

At one point, I admitted that I often worried I wasn't approaching painting the "right" way. One experienced artist, after looking through several of my bird paintings, quietly said something that has stayed with me:

"There is nothing wrong with honoring a biological thing."

Such a simple observation.

In that moment, I realized I wasn't trying to simplify nature into decoration. I was honoring it. The careful observation, the recognizable forms, the attention to the structure of a bird or leaf—those weren't limitations. They were the very things I valued.

Sometimes we need someone else to help us recognize what has been there all along.

I left Vermont with new techniques, certainly. But more importantly, I left with a clearer understanding of why I paint the way I do. The experience gave me greater confidence to trust my own instincts rather than worrying whether they fit someone else's definition of watercolor.

Looking back, I think that's one of the greatest gifts artists can give one another—the ability to see themselves and their work more clearly.