Fernando's Brush

Fernandos Brush

Fernando had never considered himself a creative person. As an engineer, he thrived on precision and problem-solving. Lines were meant to be straight, equations balanced, and answers absolute. Modern art, especially abstract art, with its splashes of colour and chaotic freedom, was a completely alien language. So when a friend gave him a voucher for a beginner’s painting class, he had every intention of letting it gather dust, but here he now was, sitting self-consciously on a wooden stool in a brightly lit studio, clutching a blank canvas and a selection of brushes.

The studio smelled of turpentine and acrylic paint, a heady combination that Fernando found disorienting. Around him, other students chatted easily, some already sketching on their canvases. The teacher, a woman named Mia with untamed curls and paint-smeared overalls, exuded an energy that put him further on edge.

“All right, everyone,” Mia began, her voice warm and inviting. “Today, we’re painting emotions. Don’t think about what it’s supposed to look like. Just feel it. Use colours, textures, shapes—whatever comes to you.”

Fernando frowned. Painting emotions? How did one even begin to translate feelings into brushstrokes? Reluctantly, he dipped a brush into a pot of blue paint and began to swipe it across the canvas. The lines were stiff, deliberate. He added streaks of red and yellow, but the result looked more like a mess than a masterpiece.

As Mia moved around the room, she stopped by Fernando’s easel. He braced himself for critique.

“What’s going on here?” she asked gently, pointing to a jagged slash of red cutting through the blue.

“I don’t know,” Fernando admitted. “It’s just… chaos.”

“Hmm,” Mia said, tilting her head. “Or maybe it’s energy. Tension. What does it feel like to you?”

Fernando stared at the canvas. The red slash suddenly reminded him of something—a heated argument with his father years ago, one he’d never resolved. Without thinking, he replied, “It feels… angry.”

Mia nodded. “Good. Keep going. Don’t worry about how it looks. Just let it out.”

Now, for the first time, Fernando let the brush move freely. He didn’t think, didn’t plan, tried not to measure and assess. He just did.  By the end of the session, his canvas was a swirl of colours and shapes he couldn’t quite explain but somehow understood.

Over the following weeks, Fernando found himself looking forward to the painting class. Each session unearthed something new: the weight of expectations he placed on himself, the joy he felt in moments of spontaneity, even a hidden desire for freedom he hadn’t known was there.

One evening, he brought in a piece he’d created at home—something wild and unrestrained, full of bold colours and jagged lines. He expected Mia to praise his effort, but what surprised him were the reactions from his classmates.

“This feels alive,” one of them said.

“It’s so raw,” another added.

For the first time, Fernando realised that art wasn’t about perfection. It was about connection—expressing something real and letting others see it.

Outside the studio, Fernando began to embrace the lessons he was learning. He took small risks at work, pitching ideas that weren’t fully formed but had potential. He picked up other creative pursuits, like writing and photography, and though he couldn’t articulate it fully, he felt lighter, as though some invisible weight had been lifted.

Months later, as he signed up for another apinting class, Fernando glanced at his first painting. He no longer saw chaos. He saw himself—a person who had learned to let go, one brushstroke at a time.

He left the studio that evening with a quiet smile, the promise of more discovery ahead.