There are no mistakes, only happy accidents

The master of the 28 minute landscape is Bob Ross. He painted himself into our lives via his PBS TV show, The Joy of Painting.

Bob usually started with a blank canvas; sometimes he had prepped it with a color wash, usually for night scenes. After a quick review of the colors he had on his palette, he would grab a brush, mix a little paint and have at it.

He used a two inch brush to cover large areas quickly. Thin brushes were used for trees and fan brushes made leaves, branches and shrubs. He made water appear out of nowhere by pulling down a reflection and brushing side to side to make it fuzzy.

My favorite part was when he used his paint knife. He would put a bit of paint (usually white or a lighter blend) on the knife edge and scrape it into the canvas. That scraping sound, combined with his mellifluous voice would send me into a vegetative trance.

He told stories about squirrels in his yard or people in his life. He cleaned his brushes and used the easel leg to beat the two inch brush dry. If you watched the show, you know the rapid thump thump thump of the two inch brush.

Bob was always encouraging. He would explain what not to do as far as technique, but he would never question where you placed a tree or a bush, or how much ice you put on a path or a branch. The title of this post is his admonishment for the frustrated painter. A mistake was something to build on and potentially create something you hadn't imagined.

Bob died a few years ago, but he has left us a legacy of videos and books on how to enjoy painting without being an "artist".

His good nature and gentle humor aren't for every taste. Experienced painters tend to scoff at his methods. But there is no doubt that we're all a little more peaceful, a little more content, and a little bit happier having had Bob in our lives.

I think I'm going to go turn down the lights and watch an episode so I can enter that tingly meditative state. When he says "Van Dyke Brown and a little Phthalo Blue and just a little dab of Titanium White," I'll be motionless. When the scraping of the knife and the thumping of the brushes commence, my resting heart rate will drop below 50 bpm.

But I'll wake up rested and content (and maybe a little forlorn) when he wiggles his fingers over his paint brush at the camera and he says, "Goodbye, and God bless, my friend."