The Weight of the Brush: Battling the Inner Critic

The water's pooling, that shiny film on the paper, making me feel a bit wobbly. I load my brush with gouache, thick and heavy, and it's like picking up a weight I've been dreading. Here we go again.

That inner critic's back, whispering those familiar doubts. It's a cold grab at my gut, squeezing out every last bit of excitement. Watercolour and gouache? They don't let you hide a thing. Every stroke shows the real you, all the raw, vulnerable bits I'd rather keep tucked away.

"Too emotional, too much," the voice echoes, a cruel reminder. "You do flowers, stick to flowers. You haven't touched a brush in ten years, you'll just make a right muddy mess, a complete disaster. Besides, it's not like you're good at anything else." My hand shakes, my heart races. I want to paint, truly paint, to pour all that feeling out onto the paper, to finally be free. Because this, this is the only thing I'm good at. The only thing I innately know. But the fear's got me trapped, especially when I dare to think about trying something new, like a bird—a creature of vibrant life, a challenge I'm terrified to face. I just want to paint, to get it all out, to paint my soul away, to finally feel something other than this suffocating doubt, this feeling of inadequacy that's been hammered into me, because being an emotionally driven artist is the only thing I have in me.

But then, a flicker of something stronger. I remember why I started, why I loved this. I remember that feeling, that deep urge to put a piece of my true self on the page. Something clicks, a tiny spark of rebellion. I dip my brush, load it with colour, and just… go.

No sketch, no lines, just the brush and the flow of colour. I'm hooked on the process, the rush of it, the way the colours blend and move, creating unexpected textures and harmonies. I just let it happen, let the water do its magic, layer the gouache, build up the thick paint. Each stroke feels like a small, defiant act against that voice, the one telling me to stay safe, to stick to what I know, to stay small, to stay quiet.

The fear starts to loosen its grip as the colours take over, as the water dances across the paper, creating soft blends and edges. I get lost in it, completely absorbed in the act of painting, in the pure, visceral joy of moving the paint around. I paint the way light kisses a petal, the shadows on fabric, the blurry, dreamlike look of rain on trees. I even start to picture a bird's wing, the delicate changes in its feathers, the way light catches it, a fragile, beautiful thing.

I'm putting it all down, the feelings, the way I see things, the messy, imperfect me, the honest, raw expression of what's inside, the only thing that feels truly me.

Hours pass, and the paper's full of colour, full of emotion. It's a piece of my inner world, a world I thought I'd lost, a world I desperately needed to find again.

When it's done, when the washes are dry, the thick paint settled, I step back, and my heart's pounding, a mixture of fear and triumph.

It's not just a painting. It's me, laid bare on the paper. All the vulnerability, all the messy human stuff, all the layers of my painting journey, a journey I almost abandoned because I was made to feel like it was worthless.

And then, the fear finally breaks, a rush of pure, overwhelming joy. The joy of creating, of being vulnerable, of knowing I dared to put myself out there, and it was enough. More than enough.

That feeling, that release, the addictive rush, the tiny act of defiance, and getting back a piece of myself I thought was gone forever—that's why I'll keep painting. Because it's the only thing that feels like me. Because I can't live without it. Because it's the only thing I'm truly good at. Because being an emotionally motivated artist isn't a weakness, it's everything.

Gee x