Wayne Sheridan

Wayne Sheridan

28 Howard Street, Boothbay Harbor, Maine 04538  

207-633-3271 waysher@hotmail.com   copyright 2009/Wayne Sheridan     

    You had to be a hearty soul to venture out for this class in near subzero temperatures, on a winter Thursday morning in Boothbay Harbor, Maine.  That’s the small Midcoast Maine fishing village to which my writer/artist wife and I had just moved a few weeks earlier.

    Before making what I considered a potentially fateful decision, which I was convinced would determine the direction of my nascent artistic career forever, I sought to make small talk. Noticing that the watercolor instructor, “please, call me Hilary,” had a distinctive English accent, I said, “Yorkshire, no doubt.”  “No, close, Lancashire,” she said. She began to tell me why she wished it had been Yorkshire, which she declared a beautiful, vibrant part of her native England, at least when compared to Lancashire. I began to talk about my good friends, originally from Yorkshire. A bit desperate to extend the conversation, I conjured up my college English History I textbook, trying to remember which shire sported the “White, ” and which the “Red,” rose, and which eventually triumphed in that royal conflict. But, I knew this continued diversion on my part would be a cowardly tactic, just delaying the fateful decision; besides, Kevin, my classmate, seemed restless to get on with it.

    “Wild and crazy, “ I said.           

    Hilary was pleased. That was her preferred way to work. She explained that she had been a marine biologist working at nearby Bigelow Laboratory,  when one day she decided to switch careers. Her biggest obstacle in that move, besides, I presumed,  the threat of starvation, was the struggle to overcome her “left brain” scientific habits. Precision, orderliness, faithfulness to method, all interfered in her attempts to be true to her creative self. So, whenever she found herself water coloring as if she were conducting a lab experiment, she’d  figuratively “break the test tubes, turn off the Bunsen burner, and toss aside the microscope,” and go “wild and crazy.”

    She further explained she had made her own fateful decision  over a dozen years ago when her daughter was young. “I no longer wished to go on  months-long ocean surveys; I’d rather be closer to home and my newborn.”  So, she exchanged the perils of the deep waters and the lab for the challenges of the watercolorist’s palette. Apparently, with no regrets.           

     By now, I’d succeeded in delaying the debut of my artistic talent for a full hour. But, Kevin, who was obviously no beginner, had already begun an admirable watercolor version of a black & white Maine seascape, from a photo in one of the books Hillary had brought for us to reference. She now wanted to jump start me. There would be no more delay to my induction.           

    She had pre-stapled a large piece of watercolor paper to a wooden board. I was directed to tape or staple a similarly sized virgin to my board. Then, wielding a paint brush, she “washed” her blank paper with a generous amount of water. Instructed: I did the same to mine. Next she squeezed some color from one of the hundreds of paint tubes she had at hand; dipped her brush in water again; poked it into the blob, and swished the mixture around her homemade palate. I was told just to watch. Kevin watched also.           

    Hilary began to apply broad strokes of color in large swatches on part of the surface. She repeated the activity with a second color. Then a third. Some of the colors began to puddle in spots. At points,  one color began running into the other. I wanted to shout, “Watch out!” But, remained silent.  Was this the start of  “wild and crazy” water coloring?  It would get crazier.            

    She brought the board to an easel she had placed a few feet in front of my and Kevin’s work tables, laying it down horizontally. More paint began to run. Then she turned it vertical. Finally, she spun it around slowly; more running and mixture of color. Apparently satisfied, or at least exhausted, she put the board and paper down on her work- table. “We’ll look at that more closely when it dries,” she said.           

    After help finding the “focus point” and the “horizon,” almost always, I was told, off-center, I began. Squeeze. Dip. Poke. And apply. Urged on, I also tried vertical and horizontal movements. Then the spin. The colors mixed, ran and occasionally puddled. Then I laid my “work” down to dry.           

    Hilary’s paint was nearly dry, so she decided it was time to discover what it was she was actually  creating.  She placed the paper on a worktable near the window and invited Kevin and me to help her in this quest. What did we see? On the vertical? On the horizontal? In between? Who saw flowers, first? I can’t remember. But, flowers it would be. Poppies and, perhaps, lilies. She promised to show us how these splotches of color would become a vibrant floral work in our next session.           

   Now, it was my turn to discover the direction of my creation. After many gyrations and twisting of heads, we decided I was definitely somewhere under water. Apparently, there were fish everywhere. At the focal point, in the upper left corner, almost floating off the paper, even I could see the vague form of fins and a tail. Smaller creatures appeared below and across the paper. There were definite signs of coral, or could it be seaweed and algae?              

   Soon our three hour session was nearly over. Kevin returned to his work table, where he seemed to be near completion of a very attractive coastal scene, in muted colors, just right for depicting the Maine I’ve quickly come to admire . I was a bit envious. But I knew, if I ever would be a watercolorist, “wild and crazy” would be the path I’d follow.

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