Impressionism

 

In elementary school, we took a field trip to a pastoral spot to practice painting in the style of Impressionism. We’d been learning about it for weeks, and this was meant to be the grand finale. It was a warm spring day, and I chose a grassy hill as my perch. Each of us received a starter kit: a small canvas, a brush, and a palette of acrylic paints.

At the time, my understanding of Impressionism boiled down to one simple rule: it wasn’t supposed to look exactly like the thing you were painting. Or rather, it was supposed to resemble how the scene might appear if you squinted. I distinctly remember our art teachers saying, “Dab, dab, no fine details…” Back then, I didn’t see the technique as I do now. To ten-year-old me, it seemed like a sloppy, lazy way of painting. Today, I recognize the subtle patterns and skill in those textured strokes, but I don’t fault myself for missing it. After all, I was just a kid. And, in a way, I wasn’t alone—the Impressionists themselves were mocked in their time, struggling even to afford food.

When I brought my finished painting home, my mom reacted the way she always did to my creations: with unreserved enthusiasm. She marveled at it, had it framed, and promptly hung it on the wall. The only problem was that she hung it upside down. I pointed this out, but she looked at me, confused, and asked, “Are you sure?” I insisted, explaining what each part of the painting represented. After a strange back-and-forth, I gave up, and the painting stayed upside down.

For years, it remained there, proudly displayed but perpetually inverted. Every so often, I’d glance at it, tilting my head to recall how it was meant to look. To be fair, it looked just as aesthetic either way, but what stayed with me was my mom’s initial reaction. She always praised my work, no matter what, and this felt like the ultimate proof of that unwavering support. While I’m deeply grateful for her unconditional love, it sometimes had the unintended effect of diluting the meaning of her approval.

What hung on the wall wasn’t impressive, nor was it truly Impressionism. It lingered by an impression—one filtered through the rosy lens of my mom’s admiration. Over time, I stopped seeing a hillside vista, whether right-side-up or upside-down. Instead, I saw a Rorschach test.