A few months ago, I wandered the aisles of Blick Art Materials looking for a few paintbrushes, a sketchbook and a decent watercolor palette. Nothing too expensive — just a little nicer than what I could pick up in the school supply section of my corner store. For some reason, a part of me felt a little sheepish when I approached the cashier, a Loyola student with a mop of blonde hair streaked with flashes of purple.
"I know I'm not actually good at all this," a part of me wanted to say while waving a dismissive hand over the supplies. I think it's a classic symptom of the perfectionist teen to anxious adult pipeline, but there's something undeniably vulnerable about picking up a new activity or returning to one at which you aren't inherently skilled — especially as an adult. To that end, outside of painting a few walls and the occasional fence post, I hadn't touched a paintbrush since college.
