Sometimes, on a Saturday, I go to a painting class. I went yesterday with the intention of painting something I could use as a Christmas card.
The class takes place in a large warehouse studio in Deptford and is run by a very charismatic and famous artist (self proclaimed). He provides all the materials, a few anecdotes and a generous lunch of wine, smoked salmon, crusty bread and French cheese. Plus the most eclectic selection of music to paint by I’ve ever heard.
The playlist has expanded since I first went to his class in the Summer, but it always starts with Up Where we Belong.
And over the next few hours, I’m sung to by The Beatles, Bob Dylan, Marina and the Diamonds, Adele and Kate Bush. The power ballad continues to feature heavily too, with Meatloaf telling me he’d do anything for love, and Celine Dion waking me from my post-lunch/post-wine lull with It’s all coming back to me now.
As corny as it is, the playlist has become more than background music; it’s become a soundtrack for my journey.
It was by going to the class in the first place that I found where I wanted to belong and after picking up a paintbrush for the first time in twenty years felt it coming back to me.