Walk into a pastel class, and the first thing you notice isn’t the art supplies. It’s the vibe. The room smells like crayon shavings, overbrewed coffee, and some kind of lemony cleaner trying way too hard. Music hums from a forgotten playlist—probably someone’s high school mixtape. People laugh over a purple blob that looks either like a sassy giraffe or a confused seahorse. It’s supposed to be art class, but it feels more like a colorful therapy session with pastel sticks. More about the author!
Forget tidy desks and neat rows of tools. Here, tables look like unicorns stampeded through, leaving behind half-finished potatoes, bewildered owls, and one very suspicious penguin. The floor? Let’s just say your shoes won’t escape unscathed. And honestly, that’s part of the fun. No one’s pretending this is a serious competition. No rules. No perfect lines. Just pastels, paper, and permission to mess up.
Working with pastels is like trying to hold smoke in your hands. You think you have control, then suddenly your sunset smudges into a cloudy blur—and somehow that’s better. They’re soft, tricky, and full of surprises. Blend too hard, and you get either a dreamy haze or something that looks like a swamp that needs a warning sign. You learn to go with the flow.
Instructors don’t lecture from the front. They wander around like playful art sprites, handing out odd tools and saying things like, “Use this spoon for clouds,” or “Try drawing with your eyes closed for five minutes.” And strangely, it works.
Everyone brings their own vibe. Some haven’t drawn since the Clinton administration. Others come armed with color-coded kits and a look that screams, “I really needed this.” Nobody’s competing. A guy’s doodling planets named after bad Tinder dates. A woman hums as she draws spirals like she’s onto a secret.
Frustration sneaks in sometimes. Maybe your banana looks like a squid. Maybe your cat looks regretful. You sigh, laugh, and keep going. That laugh—that’s the point. You stop chasing perfect and start chasing fun. And oddly enough, that’s when good shows up uninvited.
No fancy tools, no art degrees. Just pastel sticks scattered like confetti. You pick one up, test it, and dive into the mess. Someone across the room names their piece “Karen, the Overwhelmed Turnip.” You nod. You get it.
You might walk away with something worthy of a frame—or just something that makes you chuckle later. But either way, you leave with pastel under your nails, joy bubbling inside, and at least one ridiculous story about flying potatoes. It’s messy, it’s weird, and it’s better than perfect. Because sometimes, making “bad” art on purpose is exactly what the soul needs.