I had no intention of becoming a watercolor artist; I only knew I needed to create. My soul yearned to express itself visually. My parents recognized this flame inside me and sent me to The Art Academy. Every Thursday evening, my family would load up the minivan and drive 45 minutes to my class. Unlike most children’s art classes, The Art Academy classically trained young artists by having them copy images in watercolor. I’d often spend hours mixing a single color to match the cartoon I copied. The goal was complete accuracy with the aim of training the young eye. After years of tedious training, I became a skilled painter. Although I had the tools needed for exactness, I couldn’t apply them. The art of painting felt almost like a chore, something that had to be done the classical way or not at all. I internalized my training into perfectionism. If a piece wasn’t working, it reflected on my identity as an artist. Even if I did create, it was cardboard sculptures, pencil sketches or pastels. After years of distancing myself from something I associated with pain, I eventually tried watercolors outside of class. It was convenient, and I knew how to control the medium. I began painting small pieces outside of class. I painted sloppily, with wide brush strokes and rough sketch lines. My attempts at realism were frequently missed, but without the pressures of exactness, I could fall in love with the medium I overlooked. I admired the translucency, the glass-like aspects of the paint. I was fascinated by the layers upon layers of thin washes, smooth gradients, and the smallest brush strokes. The translucency of the medium required me to work quickly and accurately; too many mistakes made the paper shed, and the paint became discolored. Combining my formal training and my own experiences sharpened my skills outside the rigorous training. Soon, I could paint photo realistic pet portraits without the long and tedious process I’d learned. I soon began painting the things I loved around me, primarily dogs. I loved the base layers I could create and the tiny whiskers and fur that made every creature unique. Often, I’d bring the paintings to the owners, and soon, I began taking watercolor commissions as a side gig. I remember the first time someone cried upon seeing my paintings. My neighbor’s dog had passed, and I created a large portrait of him that I framed and gifted. The family was so emotional that I captured the likeness of this family member, and despite him no longer being there in person, he still watches over them through this piece. I’ve seen so many of my clients shed tears while looking at visages that they can no longer see daily, captured exactly with watercolors. There’s something so special about a person spending 6 plus hours with someone that’s passed on. I learn every whisker, the spots on the tongue, the nick in your cat’s ear from that fight. I understand and examine every part of whom you loved, in order to paint them on paper. Watercolors opened my eyes to a different perspective. I’m not merely a painter, but a time traveler. Art heals what had previously been unfixable.