Pick up a pastel stick and a clean sheet, and suddenly your brain acts like it’s being tested. The pressure builds fast. Your hand hesitates. You hear that voice in your head muttering, “Don’t mess this up.” You swipe. It’s a mess. Another swipe? Still a mess. But then—maybe—something shifts. You press a little harder, drag your finger across the edge, and now there’s something. Maybe it’s a pear. Or a sad balloon. Could also be a mountain, depending on how generous you’re feeling. Doesn’t matter. You’re past the hard part. You started. Recommended reading!
Pastels are ridiculous. They break when you breathe on them wrong. They stain your sleeves. They roll off tables with Olympic determination. But here’s the catch—you start to like it. That stubborn unpredictability becomes kind of charming. You stop trying to control every detail and just go with it. It’s not a math test. It’s a mess with potential.
You can absolutely scroll through pastel tutorials online until you forget what time it is. But screens don’t talk back. They don’t make fun of your radioactive sunset or tell you that your flamingo looks like a panicked chicken. That’s why in-person classes hit different. There’s feedback. Real-time laughter. Shared smudges. A guy across the table offering you just the right green without making it weird.
The folks teaching at The Tingology don’t act like they’re auditioning for a documentary. They’re real. Direct. Encouraging, without any hint of condescension. They won’t toss around terms like “value contrast” or “tonal depth” unless you ask. Instead, they say stuff like, “Make the sky angrier,” or, “That tree could use more drama.” You listen, you laugh, you learn without realizing it.
And you don’t need to bring a suitcase full of supplies. No guessing which pencil sharpener works with pastel sticks. No googling which paper feels fancy. It’s all handled. You show up, they’ve got the gear, and suddenly you’re holding a stick of purple that looks like it belongs in a candy store.
What sneaks up on you, though, is the vibe. People walk in tight. Unsure. Nervous, maybe. Then something happens around the twenty-minute mark. Someone chuckles. Someone else sighs like they just solved a riddle. And someone—almost always—accidentally draws a duck wearing boots and pretends it was on purpose.
You meet people who haven’t drawn since the Clinton administration. People fresh out of something heavy. People who just needed a night where no one expected them to be impressive. The room becomes its own weird little tribe, connected by color and chaos and the occasional moment where someone whispers, “Wait, I actually love this.”
Nobody’s handing out ribbons. No one’s ranking the art. But when you nail a shadow, or when your accidental blob starts looking like a sleepy cat, you feel it. That flicker of pride. That hit of “Oh wow, I didn’t know I had that in me.”
And maybe when you leave, you’re carrying a smudged paper that makes you smile. Or maybe it goes straight to the junk drawer. Either way, you made something. That’s more than most people do in a week. So yeah—dust off your hands. Frame that weird mushroom-house hybrid you somehow created. It matters more than you think.