How I Spent My Summer Vacation

I have a house on Cape Cod where I spend my summers. The plan each day is always the same: tennis in the morning, lunch with friends, and writing before the evening's activities. But rarely do I follow the plan. And last summer turned out even more different than I had imagined. On the way, I found a side of myself that took me by surprise.

The day it began, I was walking down the street and ran into a friend, an artist. We exchanged pleasantries and then she asked what the day held for me. To my surprise, I said I was thinking of taking up painting. I don't know why I said this. I've hardly ever thought about painting my entire life.

Being a supportive friend, she rushed me to her studio and gave me a few small canvases. I considered taking only one, thinking it would be enough. She insisted that I take five, because as she put it, "It shouldn't be too precious."

Coincidentally, that afternoon I had to deliver a book to another friend. He is a talented artist, as is his wife. She and I have never exchanged more than a few greetings, so when I saw her that day I couldn't think of anything to say, except: "I'm thinking of taking up painting." This became my "what you say to a painter" dialogue. She replied, "That's great. Now get yourself a large canvas and just do it. Don't evaluate yourself. Just do it." Aside from the canvas size, the advice was the same.

A few days later I bought a few tubes of acrylic paint and a couple of inexpensive brushes. I didn't paint, I just "got ready." I left the Cape to visit a friend in Dartmouth, Massachusetts. While there, I found a wooden shingle and started to draw on it. The drawing was of a village, sort of a Vietnamese village. (You have to understand I wasn't one of those kids in school who could draw.)

I took two more shingles back to Cape Cod, and on one I painted a girl on a horse racing through the woods. I liked it, yet I was afraid to show it to anyone. At the same time I felt compelled to show it to someone, anyone, who could tell me if it was any good. I chose the woman in the art supply store who I didn't know. When I walked in the store, I showed her the shingle and asked if she thought I should paint this or something else. She said it was great, but I didn't know whether she meant it or not.

I know now that no matter what she said, I would have found a way to see my effort as good rather than bad, because doing the painting was enormous fun. Still, it's hard to ignore what others think. Then a student friend of mine visited. We painted. (As a child, she did well in art.) She reminded me of what I teach in class about the context-dependent nature of evaluation, and she joked and embarrassed me into just enjoying the act of painting.

Then the backhanded compliments started. A very close friend of mine saw my first creation and said, "They're never as good as the first." I don't think she meant to be unsupportive, and in fact, I took the comment as a compliment. Why the first may actually be the best is worth some thought. I was fully present for the event, I didn't judge it while I painted, and I didn't mindlessly follow rules -- I couldn't, I didn't know any. If the first effort is engaged mindfully like mine was, then it might be better than any subsequent attempt -- that is, if those that followed were indeed more scripted or planned.

I bought a few more canvases and on one I painted a horse that appeared gleeful as he kicked his back heels together. A friend saw it and told me that a horse couldn't do that. I told him I was new to painting, not to physiognomy. It was interesting. If people saw the painting in a gallery, they would have assumed each brush stroke was intentional. For my painting, the assumption was error, not intention.

When I got up every morning, I loved seeing the painting of the horse. I didn't know if it was because I painted it or because of its content. And so I painted another horse. This one appeared content even though he stood on both sides of a fence. I was oblivious to his being in this position while I was painting. The activity was mindful to be sure, and I loved every minute.

There is a gallery in town that has a painting of a horse. It's very good and very pricey. People have made comparisons. "Have you seen the painting of the horse on Commercial Street? Your horse reminds me of that one." I like my painting more and more, but I'm still trying to figure out how the two paintings differ. Another friend, also an artist, prefers my horse. I can't believe it. I'm thrilled. I still don't know the underlying ways in which they are different, but now I have the courage to find out.

It seemed that people were impressed with how productive I was. So I painted and painted. In a month's time I had 25 canvases. I couldn't be sure if they were any good, but I knew there were a lot of them. The feedback was very good, but I could discount it if I were so inclined. There were people who said the paintings were good because I painted them; and there were people who said the paintings weren't good because I painted them.

I moved on to portraying people. Now the psychological significance was overwhelming. I painted a friend and myself sitting in chairs by a window. This was the first painting that had "real" objects. The chairs were real and I put us in them. I set out to paint the two of us sitting, reading and enjoying the morning. When I stepped back to look at the painting, I realized it was true to form. The floor was slanted toward her, and as always she was trying to read while I was busy talking to her -- book in hand, not to eye.

I painted all summer, loving every minute. My efforts were unscripted and I was unaware of the rules. I don't evaluate the paintings; I just involve myself fully. One doesn't need any artistic talent for that. After the painting is finished, I analyze it, questioning the psychological significance of the content, style and color. Thus, painting provides an opportunity for engagement and self-awareness.

Some people confuse my enthusiasm for an evaluation. I share my painting nonetheless because this engagement brings me enjoyment, which is readily available to anyone willing to let the process itself take over. Take a risk and find a new passion. It makes you mindful, teaches you about yourself and, perhaps most important, could be enormous fun.

Ellen J. Langer, Ph.D., is a professor of psychology at Harvard University. She writes the "Just Think About It" column for Psychology Today.