I kept bringing in precious, highly detailed pieces to my design class. The other students thought this was great. But the teacher just shook her head. One day she glanced at my latest confection and looked at me.
“Do you have a set of chopsticks at home?” she asked.
I nodded.
“And do you have paint? Not good paint… House paint. And a kitchen timer?”
Thoroughly confused I stood with my mouth open.
“I don’t want you to do this week’s assingnment,” she said. “Instead, buy a pad of newsprint with 100 sheets of paper. Set the timer for one minute and paint. Paint with the chopsticks and housepaint. When the timer chimes stop. Don’t go past a minute on any of your paintings. I want 100 paintings from you next week.”
At home in my backyard I set the timer, dipped the chopsticks in the paint bucket, and stood over the blank newsprint listening to the timer click off seconds. 43… 44… 45… And then it happened. The paint plopped a full lush blob on the center of the sheet. Without thinking, I kneeled and ran a finger through it. Wet, warm, slick. I spread five fingers out from the center of the sheet. A shape appeared. A thistle. A flower. A star burst. The bell sounded. For 100 minutes I was lost. Each painting opened out before me on the newsprint. Sometimes I used the chopsticks. Sometimes I used my fingers. Once or twice I used my feet. 100 minutes 100 paintings all spread around me on the lawn. I let them dry in the sun. When I brought them into class I didn’t care so much what others thought about the paintings. It was the process, the expression, and letting go of perfection that mattered. It was the best work I did all semester.