You show up, slightly unsure, maybe clutching your bag too tight. Someone offers a warm hello and gestures toward a pastel box that looks like candy for grown-ups. No one’s sizing you up. No one’s waiting for brilliance. It’s just a bunch of regular folks who thought, “Why not?” and found themselves smudging green into blue until it looked sort of like a tree. Find out more!

There’s something sneaky about soft pastels. They lull you into thinking you’re just doodling, and the next thing you know, you’re hunched over your paper like a detective trying to get the shadows just right under a mushroom. The good kind of obsessed. The I-didn’t-realize-two-hours-passed kind.

At The Tingology, they get it. No pomp. No pressure. Just enough guidance to keep you from panicking when your owl’s eyes go lopsided. And even then, someone nearby will laugh and tell you theirs looks like it’s had a rough night too. Suddenly, you’re not embarrassed—you’re in on the joke.

What’s oddly comforting is that no one acts like pastels are precious. They’re tools, not trophies. You get your fingers dirty, smudge with the side of your hand, wipe it on your pants without thinking. It’s a tactile thing. There’s joy in the mess, like finger painting for grown-ups but with more subtlety and a slightly better understanding of anatomy.

Some people come to unwind. Some to reconnect with that younger self who used to draw dragons in math class. There’s a teenager sketching flowers like it’s a diary, and a guy with silver hair grinning as he adds a ridiculous hat to his cat portrait. It’s this mix of quiet focus and random giggles. Feels more like a living room than a classroom.

You don’t need gear. The tables are loaded. Paper that grabs pigment like a sponge, little tools you’ve never seen before but somehow make things easier, and every pastel color you didn’t know you wanted. You’re free to experiment without worrying about waste or doing it “right.”

And maybe the most unexpected part? You feel kind of proud afterward. Not because you created some masterpiece, but because you started. You gave it a shot. That strange-looking sunflower? You made it. You showed up and made something. That sticks with you.

Next week rolls around, and your fingers start to itch for more pastel dust. Not because someone’s expecting anything. Just because you remember how it felt. Easy. Playful. Yours.