Why I, as a Professional Artist, Will Never Host a Paint Party (But If I Did, Here’s What Would Happen)

A Lighthearted Disclaimer

Before we dive in, let me make one thing clear: this is meant to be a playful take on paint parties, not an attack on anyone who enjoys them. If you love gathering with friends to splash some color on a canvas while sipping wine, more power to you! But as a professional artist, I see painting as something deeper, more complex, and yes—more demanding. Art is my passion, my craft, and the result of many, many years of learning. And I’m still learning. Understanding perspective, color theory, values, technique—these things are integral to creating real art. So while I encourage everyone to explore their inner artist, do it organically. Don’t sell your soul for the sake of a night out!

I Have Considered Hosting a Paint Party... But My Inner Voice Screams NO!

Yes, I have considered it. I’ve thought about it, debated it, even pictured it. But every time I do, my inner voice shrieks, "NO!" The only one who truly benefits from these events is the instructor, raking in the $$$ while participants walk away with an illusion of accomplishment.

Now, if I were to do it, it would be something entirely different. It would take place on an island somewhere, surrounded by inspiration, and you would learn properly. There would be no rushed, cookie-cutter paintings—just real artistic growth. And, of course, there would be $$$ involved. Quality education in art doesn’t come free, after all!

Art Deserves Better Than Dollar Store Brushes and Pre-Sketched Canvases

Imagine if Beethoven was asked to compose a symphony on a kazoo. Or if Michelangelo was handed a crayon and told, “Go ahead, carve the Sistine Chapel ceiling with this.” That’s what paint parties feel like to me.

The tools matter. Technique matters. Learning to paint isn’t about slapping cheap acrylic onto a canvas and hoping for the best while sipping bad Chardonnay. It’s about understanding light, shadow, composition, and color theory. And yes, those things take time. They’re not something you can master between appetizers and a second bottle of wine.

We as artist’s also have an environmental responsibility - we need to learn how to use and treat our materials properly. Acrylic paint is not eco friendly btw.

“Creativity” Shouldn’t Come Pre-Packaged

The whole premise of a paint party is that everyone follows along to create the exact same painting. Identical sunsets. Cloned trees. I’ve seen those paint party results, and they all look like they were created by slightly hungover clones.

Art is personal. It’s messy, unpredictable, and raw. Not a carbon copy of whatever the instructor is guiding you through like an uninspired GPS system. (“Turn left at the happy little tree. Proceed straight until existential despair sets in.”)

I’m Not Your Cheerleader

Let’s be honest: a paint party isn’t about painting. It’s about someone with a microphone shouting, “YOU’RE DOING GREAT!” while attendees wrestle with brushes that have all the precision of a garden rake. But me? I can’t fake enthusiasm for that long.

If I were to teach painting, I would get deeply invested in my students’ progress. I’d spend hours showing someone how to mix the perfect stormy grey or how to coax a shy detail out of a canvas. But in a paint party? There’s no time for that. The wine is flowing, the clock is ticking, and the instructor expected to smile through gritted teeth as someone turns a serene beach scene into something that looks like it escaped from a Tim Burton fever dream.

It’s a social experience. Not an artistic one.

The Dark Side of Instant Gratification

Here’s the kicker: paint parties feed the dangerous illusion that art is easy. It’s not. Art is hard. Sometimes it’s gut-wrenching. It’s standing in front of a canvas for hours, questioning your life choices, and wondering if you should have become an accountant.

But it’s also transformative. Every masterpiece—heck, every decent painting—comes with a story of struggle, patience, and learning. Paint parties skip over all of that. They’re the fast food of the art world: quick, cheap, and ultimately unsatisfying.

What a Paint Party Hosted by Me Would Be Like

If I ever broke my own rule and hosted a paint party, you’d be in for something completely different. There’d be no pre-sketched canvases. No watered-down paint. No cheerleading. Instead, you’d walk into a dimly lit room with haunting classical music playing in the background. Candles would flicker ominously, their wax pooling onto skull-shaped holders.

I’d greet you with the gravitas of a Gothic schoolmaster. “Tonight,” I’d announce, “we paint despair.”

Everyone would receive a blank canvas, a single brush, and a palette of black, gray, and one deep, blood-red hue. No cheerful landscapes here. You’d paint raw emotion, the kind that makes people uncomfortable. I’d circle the room like a crow, offering cryptic advice: “More shadow,” I’d murmur to one person. “Less hope,” to another.

Wine would still be served, but it would be served in goblets, and only after you’ve proven your commitment to the craft by mixing the perfect shade of torment. Snacks? Absolutely not. Art doesn’t pair with hors d’oeuvres. It pairs with existential hunger.

And glitter? Well, glitter could only be used under specific conditions. It’s not for amateurs or hobbyists. Glitter is an advanced medium reserved for those who have completed at least 100 hours of study in Reflective Dispersive Textures (a certification I may or may not invent). Glitter requires precision, vision, and an understanding of its consequences.  They don’t call it the herpes of the craft world for nothing!

The Bottom Line

I respect anyone’s desire to try painting. Truly, I do. But art deserves your full attention, your sweat, your tears, and sometimes your existential crises. It’s not a party trick, and it’s not a side dish to a charcuterie board.

So, no, I’ll never host a paint party. But if you’re brave enough to enter my world of shadowy creativity, where art is messy and real, then come find me. Just don’t ask for glitter unless you’ve passed the test. And if you even think about painting a happy little tree, I’ll know.

Wanda Fitzgerald is a witchy, gothy artist who knows that true art is nothing short of alchemy—a spell woven from shadow and light, chaos and control. She descends willingly into the artistic abyss, a paint-stained sorceress forever experimenting, forever chasing the elusive magic that lurks within every brushstroke. She conjures landscapes both real and imagined, summons haunting portraits from the void, and is irresistibly drawn to water—perhaps a past-life mermaid, perhaps just someone who enjoys the drama of a stormy sea. She constructs tiny worlds from forgotten relics, crafts wearable enchantments, and dabbles in the dark arts of mixed media. And glitter? Ah, glitter. That cursed, bewitching substance. She honours its hypnotic shimmer yet knows its true nature—a chaotic force of entropy that, once unleashed, can never be contained.