Walk into this pastel class, and it doesn’t take long to realize you’re not in a typical art studio. No stiff chairs, no quiet murmurs, no sense of trying to impress someone who once studied color theory in Florence. Instead, it smells faintly of coffee and old erasers, someone’s humming along to whatever playlist’s on, and there’s a half-finished doodle of a llama wearing shades taped to the wall. You get the vibe fast—it’s not about perfection here. It’s about trying stuff. More hints!

Pastels aren’t everyone’s first pick. They’re often seen as kid stuff. Soft little crayons that make a mess and don’t behave. But in this room, they come alive. You pick one up, and it slides across the page like butter on a hot skillet. One swipe gives you fire, another gives you fog. It’s weirdly satisfying, like peeling off plastic screen protectors or cracking bubble wrap. There’s no long lecture about the “essence of line.” You just grab a stick and start. If it goes south? Grab another. That’s part of the game.

The folks running the class are more like mischievous art camp counselors than traditional instructors. They won’t correct your grip or ask what you were trying to say with that pink splotch. One might hand you a piece of mesh and say, “Scrape through this, it looks cool.” Another might ask why your cat drawing has human hands—and then draw a cat with wings next to it.

Nobody’s showing off. Nobody’s shy either. Some people draw shapes for twenty minutes and call it done. Others lose themselves in shadows and start talking to their page. There’s laughter, occasionally someone curses at their paper, and one person swears their cat drawing winked at them. It’s loose, low-key, and liberating.

What’s surprising is how personal the chaos feels. You’re not being told to follow steps. You’re invited to play, to risk doing something dumb, to surprise yourself. One woman said she hadn’t drawn since her kid was in diapers. She left with two smudged pieces and a grin that said she remembered something she’d forgotten.

You don’t need to bring anything. No pre-shopping panic in the stationery aisle. No trying to decode paper textures like you’re prepping for a heist. Everything’s provided. Paper that doesn’t disintegrate, colors that actually blend, and enough space to make a mess without guilt.

By the time you leave, your hands are probably dusty, your sleeves may be stained, and your brain feels strangely lighter. Maybe your sketch looks like a raccoon in a blender. Maybe it looks like something you’ll frame. Either way, it’s yours. And it exists because you gave yourself an hour to mess around.

You won’t get a grade. You won’t get homework. You might get a compliment from the guy next to you who spent half the class trying to draw a pineapple and ended up with a hedgehog. That’s the kind of validation you didn’t know you needed.

And if your final piece is a potato with wings? Well, someone will probably say, “That’s rad.” Because it is.