Dumb as A Painter

When I worked with my weaving teacher, he'd say:

“Michelle, weave as if you are dumb as a painter.”

He said this often.

And I was like - how offensive to all artists, everywhere.

It took me a while to understand what he was actually saying.

Sometimes he'd offer a little more:

“Learn everything. And then forget everything.”

One night, at 2am on one of our weaving benders, he even offered this:

A spiritual leader - a real one, one who truly ‘knows’ - will never seem like a Spiritual Leader. They hold all power in one hand. But they do not carry it with them. They pick it up when they need it, and then they drop it.

He demonstrated with his hands, and I had this distinct impression of some very old hands.

Holding everything.

And then nothing.

Simultaneously, I had an image of an old man sitting on a street corner, laughing at children playing.

How did this relate to weaving?

Good question.

I've come to understand it like this:

Learn the instrument.

Learn the loom. Learn the fibre. Learn every technical detail you can possibly stretch into.

Learn to be PERFECT.

Learn the rules, the compositional tricks, every textural hack. Become so fluent in the language of weaving that your eye can dissect any texture, any colour, and your hands know how to recreate it.

And then -

let it all go.

Every rule. Every trick. Every intention.

Let it go and let the heart of joy rule what you make.

I think dumb as a painter means being an accomplished painter who still knows how to paint like a child.

Intentionally intentionless.

No formula ruling them. No patron dictating to them. No genre they must sit within.

It is intuition dancing with manifestation.

It's letting the deep, vulnerable parts of the heart express themselves - and trusting an unstable landing point.

Being okay with not knowing where it will land.

Trusting yourself to take risks.

This phrase has been dancing around my mind lately, and yesterday I finally sat down with it.

Why is this particular teaching coming back to me now?

At the same time, I sat with another, more difficult thing.

Lately, because of my enthusiasm and joy, I've been called a “Cheerleader.”

I can hear the goodwill intended in that word.

But for some reason, it has really jarred me.

In therapy we sometimes work with nominalisations - taking a word that seems to mean something obvious and asking:

What does that actually mean to you?

So I asked myself.

What does Cheerleader mean to me?

Someone skilled, standing on the sidelines while the real game happens somewhere else.

A support role.

Someone there to get the crowd excited and maintain morale while the actual stuff is happening on the field.

I understand that role is important.

I understand it's part of community.

And I still hate being called it.

So I sat with that too.

I realised it made my genuine offering of joy feel light. Fluffy. Frivolous.

I had another moment recently that landed similarly.

Someone asked for feedback on something they were creating.

I got excited.

“Oh, I LOVE it!”

They turned to me and said something along the lines of:

“You're the best cheerleader. I think I'll ask someone who can actually constructively criticise me and give me a more honest and realistic reflection.”

And I felt so sad.

In two ways.

First, because my genuine response had somehow been interpreted as unrealistic.

And second, because joy as feedback wasn't enough.

Something apparently needed to be cut down a little before it could be trusted as worthwhile.

And that brought me right back to:

Dumb as a painter.

I looked hard at my own enthusiasm.

Was it naïve?

Was I missing something?

Should I become more serious? More critical?

Is it enough to feel genuine joy when another person shines?

Does that make me a Cheerleader?

No.

Came the answer.

No.

Not at all.

Because I realised something.

These parts of me - the gushy bits, the enthusiasm, the ridiculous excitement, the love-

these are the parts of me that survived.

This is my heart shining regardless of all the shit that has gone down.

Regardless of trauma.

Regardless of gaslighting.

Regardless of boardrooms and late nights and dickheads.

Regardless of injuries and illnesses and people I've loved who have died.

All that technical training in being human that, by rights, should perhaps have produced something different.

Something more cautious.

More shut down.

Less trusting.

Less shiny.

More critical.

More realistic.

More sceptical.

Less generous.

Less gushy.

Something trauma-tised.

And suddenly I saw the gold in my own enthusiasm.

And I was like -

WOW.

Even after all that stuff,

I still love what I love.

That's hardcore.

The child painting because they don't know the rules is one thing.

The master painter who knows every rule and nevertheless paints with the freedom of a child is another.

Likewise, innocence that hasn't encountered pain is beautiful - but joy that knows exactly how brutal life can be and remains capable of delight is something else entirely.

Maybe next time someone calls me a Cheerleader, I'll say:

“That's the love in me that survived.”

Because it is.

And it isn't naïve.

It knows.

Or perhaps I don't need to be quite so intense about it.

Maybe I'll just smile and say:

Dumb as a Cheerleader..

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About the Writer

Michelle McCosker is a vibrant and creative person, certified in both Holistic Psychotherapy and Art Therapy.

Her life experiences and playful approach provide profound wisdom in her work. She expertly and gently guides her clients through old wounds at their own pace, offering compassion and clarity, helping them access their innate wisdom and acceptance in themselves.

She calls this 'healing, as a movement of life'.

Michelle offers 1:1 Holistic Psychotherapy (online) and Art Therapy Sessions (online and in-person).

As Community Steward, Michelle has established and care-takes this Community Clinic as well as offers focussed study sessions to Holistic Psychotherapy students studying Lee Trew's model.