Now I recall the times I was painting as a kid, and picking out the memories that made me believe I can do this at some point, or somehow I can still see their influence on me. Some are very personal, very fragile to tell and I might keep them to myself as hidden love letters in a safe, but this one is about Bob Ross, I see how much he affected us all collectively, and I have shared him on my stories and in chatting with friends, joked about how I learned oil painting from him, but it’s true, he did teach me and I did go back to his videos, I learnt oil painting from him.
“Joy of Painting” was my first painting class, I think I watched him on TV when I was 7 or sth, and I remember glimpses of the dark background behind him and his never-fading smile. There was even a parody show on Iranian TV making fun of how he talks about colours. I remember my aunt made a copy of one of his instructions, still hanging in my grandparents' room, thick layers of paint making a cliff, tall pine trees stacked together and a blue sunny sky, a scene she probably never saw in real life. Still, the painting mesmerised me, she seemed like the most talented person I knew.
A few days ago, I found this mug with a broken handle on the side of the street, it was a print of Bob Ross as a Drake meme, quoting “mistakes?” on top and “happy accidents” on bottom. I remember him on the screen as he wiped his brush by tapping it on the side of his easel, as he added rays of white on a black canvas, making waves, trees, and clouds, all so effortlessly and content with what he was doing. I think more than a painter he was a storyteller, he talked about his brushes and the colour as the main character and how they play on, how they dance and shine, it takes generosity for a painter to do so. He made painting accessible and after him, it wasn’t a luxury practice, it can be anything you make it to be. He made it as easy as an afternoon show, as it should be. I think I find joy in painting, I find joy and sorrow and I lose a part of me whenever I finish a piece, it tears me to pieces, and it’s that moment when something is so painfully healing that you choose it over and over again. Painting is loving, my practcie is love, and I have done it so many times and every time it’s a broken piece of glass trapped within me, it moves, aches and bleeds and it sheds.