Watercolor For The Soul

At the beginning of 2024 year, I set a simple intention: to engage in art as a regular person.

My grandma died the previous October. She was the kind of person who would break into song in the middle of a conversation. She wrote poetry because it made her happy. She encouraged her sons to be artists and musicians, and she extended that same encouragement to all of us. Art, to her, wasn’t precious or performative—it was part of being alive.

So that January, I decided to honor her by bringing art back into my everyday life. Not to monetize it. Not to perfect it. But remember that art makes us human, connects us to our essence, and to one another.

I looked through the C360 catalog and signed up for the earliest available art class. It happened to be watercolor. At the time, I hadn’t picked up a paintbrush since elementary school.



That one decision changed my daily rhythm.

I’ve been painting nearly every day since. Every morning, before I start my workday, I sit down with my paints. Sometimes what comes out is pretty. Sometimes it’s blobs. Sometimes I’m surprised by how it turns out. Sometimes I laugh at how bad it is. And every single time, it fills my cup.

Watercolor has become a mindfulness practice for me.

Somewhere along the way in modern society, we decided that art only has value if it can be monetized, polished, or proven worthy. We placed it on a pedestal and told ourselves that unless we were exceptional, it wasn’t worth attempting.

But that’s not how art lived in my grandma’s world.

She told stories about nights on her porch while her dad played the fiddle and the family sang together. She mailed poems back and forth with cousins across the country. She decorated her space with shells, rocks, and bits of glass—creating beauty from whatever brought her joy. Art wasn’t separate from life; it was woven into it.

Watercolor has quietly taught me a few things.

It has taught me to let go of perfection. Watercolor has a mind of its own. Sometimes the plan doesn’t work—and sometimes what happens instead is better.

It has taught me to keep going. The paintings I end up loving the most often look terrible in the middle. That moment when something feels ruined is often just part of the process. All I’m really “wasting” is paper. The value is in the doing, not the final result.

It has taught me to let things flow.

It has taught me to share my art even when it will never make me any money.

And it has taught me to celebrate mediocrity. I’ve even added “mediocre watercolorist” to my resume. In a culture that relentlessly pushes us toward unachievable perfection, choosing mediocrity feels like an act of rebellion—and a deeply freeing one.

Eventually, these reflections turned into an invitation: to hold space for others to paint together. Not as a teacher, but as a fellow participant. A space holder. Someone who believes that creativity belongs to everyone—especially those who think they “aren’t artistic.”

I share a few technical basics when helpful—how watercolor blends when wet, why light colors come first, how taping the edges can change the experience—but none of it is the point.

The point is community.
The point is care.
The point is mindfulness.

The point is remembering that making art doesn’t have to be impressive to be meaningful.

So I keep painting.

Not to get better—though sometimes I do.

But to stay human.

I hope you come to C360 for Watercolor for the Soul sometime and see for yourself. Or, that you find another artistic avenue from the C360 catalogue to explore. And I hope it fills your cup - not because it is perfect, but because the pursuit of it is. 

- Sarah Schultz