Getting Started

If I were starting my watercolor journey today, I would not do it alone.

I would have a dog standing this close to my face, quietly supervising, making sure I didn’t take myself too seriously. (You know the look—the one that says, “Are you painting… or is this a snack situation?”)

And honestly, that’s probably the best place to begin.

Because watercolor—much like life—goes better when someone loving is nearby, reminding you to breathe.

First Things First: I’d Start Exactly Where I Am

If I were starting today, I would stop waiting for the perfect moment, the perfect supplies, or the sudden arrival of artistic confidence via overnight delivery.

I would start at my table. With whatever paints I had. With a slightly suspicious brush. And with the full understanding that my first paintings might look like they were created during a minor emotional event.

Watercolor has a reputation for being fussy. People say it’s unforgiving. That it has a mind of its own.

Which is true.

But so does my dog—and I adore him anyway.

If I’ve learned anything, it’s that the things with the most personality are usually the most rewarding.

I’d Learn From Artists Who Feel Like Kind Neighbors

If I were starting today, I’d intentionally surround myself with artists who make watercolor feel welcoming instead of intimidating.

I'd sign up for My Patreon Page and then I'd sign up to follow Andrea Nelson.

Andrea Nelson would be one of the first people I’d watch. Her work feels calm and confident without being stiff—like the paint is allowed to wander a bit and still be loved. There’s a gentleness in her approach that quietly says, You don’t have to wrestle the paint. Let it talk back.

That kind of permission is everything when you’re learning.

Emma Lefebvre

And then there’s Emma Lefebvre (whose last name I still mentally sound out every time). Emma has this wonderful way of making creativity feel accessible—like something meant for regular humans with laundry to fold and dogs to walk.

She reminds you that art doesn’t have to be heavy or precious. It can be playful. Curious. A little messy. Watching her feels like having a friend sit down beside you and say, “Let’s just see what happens.”

That’s the energy I want at my painting table.

I’d Keep My Supplies Simple (and My Expectations Even Simpler)

If I were starting today, I wouldn’t buy all the things. I’d choose a small set of colors, a brush or two, and stick with them long enough to get to know them.

Watercolor doesn’t need abundance. It needs familiarity.

There’s something comforting about learning how your blue behaves. How much water is too much. How the paint settles when you stop fussing and let it dry—usually while a dog nose appears inches from the paper, just checking on things.

I’d Sketch Every Day—Small, Imperfect, and Honest

This is where Sketch a Day would come in.

If I were starting now, I would absolutely use Sketch a Day as a gentle guide—not a rulebook, not an assignment, just a soft nudge that says, Come sit down. Draw something.

I’d sketch:

• My coffee cup

• My paint water (which always looks more interesting than expected)

• My dog’s nose (because honestly, how could I not?)

Sketching teaches you how to see, and seeing is the real foundation of watercolor. Not talent. Not fancy techniques. Just noticing what’s already there.

I’d Let My Work Be Imperfect—and Seen

If I were starting today, I’d try not to hide my early work.

I’d share the lopsided houses.
The muddy skies.
The flowers that resemble unidentified sea life.

Because art grows faster when it’s allowed to be human.

And because someone else out there needs to see that it’s okay to be learning. That every confident painter once stared at a page and thought, Well. That didn’t go as planned.

(My dog, by the way, has never once judged a painting. He’s just happy I’m sitting still.)

Mostly, I’d Remember Why I Started

If I were starting my watercolor journey today, I’d remind myself—often—that this isn’t about perfection.

It’s about showing up.
About play.
About quiet moments at the table.
About paint moving where it wants to go.
About being watched by a loyal companion who believes you’re doing great, even when you’re not so sure.

Some days the painting works.
Some days it doesn’t.
Both days matter.

And if you’re starting today—really starting—I hope you know this:

You’re already doing it right.

Sit down. Pick up the brush. Let the water lead a little. And if a dog shows up to supervise, consider yourself very lucky.