How to Paint a Pear

There is a difference between moving on and letting go.

I consider this as the shy February sun streams through the windows in G’s watercolor studio in Union Square. Five of us gather around her pale cypress table, wet brushes in hand.

Today’s lesson is values. In painting, value has nothing to do with principle, and everything to do with depth—it’s the lightness or darkness of a color. Unlike cultural values, the values of art cannot be swayed by how you were raised or stories the media tells you. In that regard, art is an honest messenger.

I didn’t grow up painting or drawing, although in 4th grade, my rendition of myself as Mona Lisa made it to the district art fair. Other than that glowing feature, my interest in painting remained a mellow seed, intact and unobstructed. I think it’s good to have a hobby completely untethered to any sort of expectation. I think it’s good to live your entire life untethered, but that’s a bigger subject.

When the watercolor seed started sprouting, I was delighted. I wonder what other seeds are taking root within me, biding their time. They, too, will break ground when they’re ready. My job is simply to clear the way. 

“Values,” G tells us, “makes things more interesting.” She shows us examples of powerful contrasts: sky against sea, moonlight on skin, long shadows behind objects, like pears—which is the subject we’re painting today. 

But, first, we must practice mixing. I don’t love this part. G has different names for the paint viscosity levels: butter, honey, milk, tea, champagne. We start with butter, rich and thick, and work our way to airy champagne, adding and subtracting water levels as we go.

I look across the table at R’s work. She has the cleanest lines I’ve ever seen. She’s in law school and signed up for this watercolor course over winter break because she was dreading going back. Her gradient work is beautiful and exacting. I bet her law school notes are impeccable.

I look at my own practice lines, soft and squishy, and shrug as I transition from milk to tea.

I glance to my left to see P’s page. You can tell she’s done this before. P is an accountant and likes how painting relieves her stress. She keeps to herself, but lights up when we discuss color theory. She admits she has an excel spreadsheet at home with all the color ID numbers and characteristics of the Daniel Smith watercolor pigments. She picks rich shades and always does the suggested homework.

We mix, we adjust. G stands over each of our shoulders, offering improvements to our technique. She is a balanced painter, tested and seasoned. She gently reminds me to use less water as I brush champagne onto my page in little blobs. G created her Watercolor for Beginners course because she took a class when she was first starting out, and it left her feeling even more lost. She doesn’t want anyone else to feel that way. She firmly believes anyone can paint.

Finally, it is time for pears. We craft our pears using multiple techniques: wet on dry, wet on wet, feathering, blotting. My lines are cautious and the bodies a little misshapen, but I am quick to adapt once I get going. I mainly just wait and see what the watercolors want to do; I find that they have a mind of their own. 

I dip my brush into ultramarine, a shade of blue made from crushed lapis lazuli stone. This pigment used to be worth more than gold. Renaissance painters fell to their knees for it, exclusively saving the color for holy concepts, like the Virgin Mary’s robes. I wonder what Michelangelo would think of my lumpy ultramarine pears, painted on mid-grade paper with water running down my wrists.

We do the pear exercise one last time, except this round, we only get 1 minute to complete the task. I like this speed game! My pear quickly materializes, textured and whole. I’m a bit shocked at how swiftly it appears before me, plump and fully realized. I look around to see I am the first to finish. G has notes pinned in different corners of her studio. “Your painting is often finished before you are,” one reads. I put my paintbrush down and lean back, satisfied. I should remember this, I tell myself. 

I am discovering deeper layers of who I am through watercolor. I excel at the abstract—the nuance, the subtle blend—but could use more definition at times. I am intuitive and sometimes impatient. I am unafraid of bold values. I thrive when I get out of my own way. 

There is a difference between moving on and letting go.

I consider this as I pack up my supplies. I ride the elevator down to the building’s lobby and walk out the bustling doors, straight into the heart of Union Square. I meander between park benches and farmer’s market stalls. It feels familiar. I used to work in this area, years ago now, for a software startup with unlimited vacation time that no one ever took.

I breathe deep. I am not the same person I once was, and that is a liberating thing to know. I head towards the train with paint-splattered sleeves, blue pears in tote. My Saturday stretches before me with youthful possibility.

I am learning to trust myself. I am learning to let go.

Praying for my pears in her ultramarine outfit. Sassoferrato. The Virgin in Prayer. c. 1640–1650, National Gallery, London.

Note to self