When you live down the road from an art school of global repute, it's hard to not have an interest in going. I didn't have the talent, gumption, or vision to apply as a young adult. However, as an underemployed adult rapidly approaching middle age, I had a free week in summer, a few hundred pounds, and the foolhardiness that's afforded to those with horrendous writer's block to buy a place on a five-day short course. After a multi-year stretch in the creative wasteland, it felt like reserving a table at a Michelin-star restaurant knowing I only had condiments in my fridge.

The only other adults on the course were a retired dentist and the tutor. The rest of the class was made up of talented young adults with gumption and vision, planning to apply to art school proper in a couple of years. None of them could have been older than 16. I wasn't cowed by their youth, though temporarily stunned to find myself in a room full of walking, talking people who were half my age. I'd made it here through sheer desire and steely determination, clicking the button to book, that small cluster of pixels that had taken on a big-glowing-red-fuck-everything quality. My potential as a visual artist could withstand being held in the same room as a teenage crèche.

I spread my hands wide and flat on the desk allotted to me, covered with the paint of everyone who'd gone before me, holding my breath to slow my heart down. We'd been asked to bring in an object to study, any art materials we already had, but not told much else. Along with the desk, we were each given an easel and a large section of wall, which we were expected to fill. Any base, like a sheet of paper, was called "grounds". We had to "document" our "process", or take photos of what we were doing as we went along. We weren't just painting or drawing or sculpting, either. We were "responding". The simplest doodle became charged with this new slang. I was excited.

The retired dentist was so friendly. She smiled often, something I don't automatically associate with dentists. Her teeth looked good, in an enviably natural way. I loved her shoes. Silver platform loafers. She'd brought some delicately twisted branches as her object. Her wall filled quickly with pieces that were by turns haunting and beautiful, made with light brushes of the tips of the branches, or drenching the entire lengths in ink and rolling them along a sheet. I regretted bringing a candle as my object. Everything on my slice of wall was crudely phallic. But it felt really good to walk to the studio in the sunshine, be on my Birkenstock-ed feet all day in front of a canvas, listening to the same Beverly Glenn-Copeland album on repeat.

By the end of the second day, the cliques had formed through a force as invisible but undeniable as gravity. Three off-beat kids and four sleek girls. The retired dentist and I hovered towards the back of the group as the tutor paced upfront, leading us round the galleries of the city. We chatted about her upcoming trips, swimming in exotic places with her buddies. Her smiling frequency was not just due to the quality of her teeth. She was really happy. I wanted to draw her, not the candle.

Back in the studio, the younger ones took to the exercises with the ease of people who, through the powers of probability, know they have more of their lives ahead of them than less. I tuned in to the tasks feverishly, painfully aware of how little time five days is for anything. They were set as questions, not outcomes. What happens if you do this with that? I found I could still get curious, just about. I remained allergic to colour. Nothing was turning out how I wanted, but I was turning them out, discovering a sense for when something was done that rested between my heart and my gut. Nowhere near my head. Not a decision, but a recognition.

The auspices of being part of the institution, however briefly, were significant. We skipped the queue for the Bansky exhibition, so I got to hate it inclusive of my course fee. Open 24/7, I wondered how much the ushers were being paid. We'd surrendered our phones at the door, dropping them into nifty magnetic pouches, so we could experience the herds in front of the works unfiltered. A souvenir Polaroid was offered. I directed the photographer to a corner of the room with a mannequin police officer riding a carousel house, only to be corrected that I had to be in the photo. Without that personal appearance, it could be mistaken for something taken on a phone, and I could be sued. Admittedly, I didn't fully understand the implications being laid out, but I got the gist. Anonymity for some, threat of legal action for others. I turned my back to the lens, looking straight at my chosen corner, my sorry little display of disobedience. Faceless Polaroid hot in my pocket, I tutted through the rest of what was on show. Is this what counts as an edgy statement these days? Outside, I sidled up to the off-beat kids and asked them what they thought. They said he was just trying so hard and left it at that. The children really are our future.

Our final task was to respond to an object we'd made from scraps, using only charcoal, the grounds being a sheet of paper that stretched up to the ceiling. Time melted down and through. I stepped away from the wall, tuning in to that feeling of being done. Suddenly, it was the last hour of the course. The abundant sunshine and warmth of the week ebbed away, pelting rain resumed. We helped each other use sealant on every unwieldy offering to preserve it for the journey home. I picked the pieces of work that I could stomach to keep, bundled the rest in a rough paper sleeve to be recycled. The tutors looked at me heavily, asked me if I was sure, whether I'd documented everything. I glanced at the message I'd scrawled in Sharpie, big enough that no one could miss it - PLEASE THROW AWAY THANK YOU. I didn't need it. I'd got what I came for.

I started telling people, I think I'm going to apply to art school. I looked at the cost of a degree. I balked. Spending this much would be an indulgence, even if I could actually afford it in the first place. Sharing my concern with a good friend, she told me in warm tones that I should do what I can to enjoy my life. Enjoy your life, darlin' is a Beverly Glenn-Copeland lyric from a song on the very album I had on repeat. A sign! I opened a savings account labelled ART SKOOL. I found myself noticing things around me and documenting them. Maybe this is what John Berger meant. My environment bloomed with purpose. A fresh framework was winding its way through me. A new prognosis for my writer's block. What wasn't working in writing might actually have a need to be realised with more dimensions, resisting the simple form I was trying to force it into, yes, I have been such an IDIOT, that's clearly what's happening here, this is what's MEANT to happen, this is who I am BECOMING, in some sense who I have ALWAYS been, it is BEGINNING, my life, it really starts NOW.

See, I get these notions about who I am and what I'm meant to do. As surely as they arrive, they leave. I can almost feel the momentum drain from my body. It's not just art school. It's the film stills camera gathering dust on my bedroom drawers. The bundles of yarn neatly wound in boxes. The unopened home pottery kit. The stacks of blank notebooks. The multiple career pivots. ART SKOOL got raided to plug the gaps in my underemployment. The pile of work I didn't ask to be thrown away lies in folds on the attic floor. Maybe I am what I dread most, a loud beast of novelty, not a sturdy vessel of creativity. Enjoy your life, darlin'. I know it's meant to be encouragement. Permission, even. A declaration of rights. But when I'm wretched, it sounds like a task I don't have the talent or time to complete. I've let myself get wretched again, yes, I have been such an IDIOT, that's clearly what's happening here, this is what's MEANT to happen, this is who I am BECOMING, in some sense who I have ALWAYS been, it is ENDING, my life, it really is a WASTE.

So many statements. I forget to ask questions.

What are my grounds? How do I respond to what's in front of me? Is what I can do done?

I have painted once since finishing the course. But the writer's block lifted.

Enjoy your life?