Finding Form: The Art of Beginning
You don't have to have everything figured out to begin.
Sometimes you find your form through the act of creating.
By Geneus Stevenson | Now in the Room — House of Geneus
I walked into my first Finding Form class knowing what I wanted people to experience, but not entirely knowing how I was going to bring it all together.
And for the first few minutes, it showed. At least to me 😂
I stumbled over a few words during my introduction, mentally organizing thoughts I probably should have organized before arriving. All I wanted was to get everyone started so I could stop worrying about whether they could tell I wasn't fully prepared. But I knew the introduction mattered. People needed to understand what they were walking into, what we would be exploring, and what they could expect from the experience.
So I continued.
And eventually, I said the words I'd been waiting to say: it was time to begin.
Almost immediately, the attention shifted away from me and toward the canvases. I could finally relax. What I didn't realize was that I was about to learn just as much as the people I'd come to teach.
A World of Their Own
For our first class, I chose trees.
Not because I had some elaborate lesson prepared about painting them, but because I wanted to give everyone a familiar subject with enough freedom to make it their own.
I invited participants to create a world surrounding a tree or trees. It could be one tree, several scattered across a landscape, or an entire forest. We began with the background. I encouraged everyone to choose colors that meant something to them, whether through solid colors, blending, layers, or patterns. From there, they could introduce elements of their environment before adding their trees.
There was no reference painting to reproduce. No expectation that everyone's work should look alike. I wanted to see what would happen when people were given a starting point and the freedom to decide where it would take them.
And they surprised me.
Nearly everyone in the room was painting for the first time. Yet once they began, many seemed remarkably comfortable following their own instincts. Some worked quietly. Others talked through their ideas. Some stood, some sat, some swayed or hummed as they painted.
I found myself observing more than the artwork. I was observing how people create. How they make decisions. How they respond to uncertainty. How they use their bodies, their memories, and their imaginations to bring something into existence. Occasionally, someone would approach the process differently from what I'd instructed. My instinct wasn't necessarily to correct them. I wanted to understand what they were seeing that I couldn't. And sometimes, as their painting developed, I began to see it too. It reminded me that an instruction can offer direction without being the only possible route.
Trust the Process
Throughout the class, I found myself repeating a simple reminder:
Trust the process.
Don't become discouraged because your painting doesn't look the way you imagined halfway through. There's a stage in creating when things can look unfinished, disconnected, or completely different from what you intended. That doesn't necessarily mean something has gone wrong.
Sometimes the next decision changes everything.
Sometimes the unexpected becomes your favorite part.
And sometimes you have to allow an idea to develop before you can fully understand it.
A few participants needed help brainstorming or finding visual references. Others simply needed someone to listen as they worked through their thoughts.
I enjoyed those moments because their questions often introduced perspectives I hadn't considered myself. I came prepared to guide people through a creative experience. I hadn't anticipated how much their individual approaches would expand my own thinking.
More Than a Painting
As the class progressed, something else began to emerge. The paintings were becoming personal. One participant painted a small house surrounded by trees. During our closing discussion, he explained that it represented his grandmother's shack deep in the woods of South Carolina, where he had once lived.
His grandmother was no longer with us, but the memory of that place remained vivid in his mind. I remember appreciating his painting before knowing its story.
After hearing him speak, I appreciated it even more. He hadn't simply imagined a world. He had reached into his history and brought a cherished place back into view.
Another participant, a seven-year-old girl, painted herself and her parents enjoying time together outdoors. Same assignment. Completely different worlds.
One person created from memory. Another from family and imagination. Others explored color, atmosphere, and landscapes in ways that felt natural to them.
And every painting carried something of the person who made it. That was one of my favorite discoveries.
We can look at a piece of art and appreciate what we see without knowing everything behind it. But when an artist chooses to share their story, the work can take on another dimension. Not because the explanation makes it more legitimate. Because it allows us to encounter more of the person who created it.
A Room Full of Artists
Toward the end of class, everyone began helping clean up. Chairs were folded and returned to the closet. Materials were gathered. The room gradually transformed from a working studio into something resembling a small gallery.
Two tables remained, lined with paintings displayed on easels. I invited everyone to gather for a miniature exhibition. We moved from painting to painting, giving each artist an opportunity to share their thoughts and allowing others to offer their own interpretations.
At first, I invited the group to interpret a painting before its creator spoke. After the first couple of paintings, I realized I wanted to approach it differently.
I began inviting each artist to speak first. It was a small adjustment, but an important one.
I wanted everyone to have the opportunity to establish their own relationship with their work before hearing what others saw in it. Some participants were hesitant, concerned about how their paintings might be received. I reminded them that their art wasn't something to be graded. Their individual expression was precisely what made each painting worth exploring.
And then something happened that I hadn't planned. My mother, who attended the class, began downplaying her painting. Before I could say much, the other participants immediately began encouraging her, sharing what they appreciated about her work. She opened up and began explaining her thought process. I stood there in awe. My mother is an artist, although she doesn't always give herself permission to embrace that part of herself. I'm usually the one encouraging her. This time, the room did it for me. I felt proud of her. And deeply appreciative of the people who had gathered around us.
At the end of each presentation, we applauded the artist. When everyone had shared, we celebrated the entire group. Then, unexpectedly, they turned the applause toward me. I hadn't anticipated that. I was simply grateful to have witnessed everything that unfolded.
Finding My Form, Too
Before leaving, several participants asked whether Finding Form would return and when the next class would take place. I couldn't help smiling. Two hours earlier, I had been standing in front of these same people, nervously working my way through an introduction and hoping I could pull everything together. Now they were asking to do it again.
And somewhere between those two moments, I had discovered something about myself. I love creating experiences for people. But this time, the experience I created gave something back to me. I was reminded of how differently people see the world, how much meaning can exist behind a seemingly simple image, and how naturally connection can emerge when people are given room to express themselves.
I also learned that being a facilitator doesn't mean having every answer or anticipating every moment. Sometimes it means providing a structure, paying attention, making adjustments, and allowing the people in the room to contribute something you could never have planned yourself.
I won't forget those nervous first few minutes. In fact, I hope I remember them clearly. Because one day, someone else may be preparing to facilitate their first class, introduce their first project, or begin something they've never attempted before. And I want to be able to tell them that I stumbled through my introduction, questioned my preparation, and still went on to have an experience that left me full of love.
Not everything has to begin perfectly to become meaningful. That was the lesson I encouraged my participants to embrace as they worked through their paintings.
And without realizing it, I was learning the same lesson alongside them.
You don't have to have everything figured out to begin.
Sometimes you find your form through the act of creating.