I first started buying Neocolor IIs—those fancy, water-soluble crayons—after participating in Jo Blaker’s London Drawing Group classes. I loved the way Jo would take a big brush, held loosely in her hand, and smudge water around on top of the crayon marks, let that layer dry, and then use other materials on top.
I was taken in by the processes Jo clearly enjoyed developing and using in her work. Her results so often have a spontaneous yet studied quality to them. I admired that too. I mean, just look for a second:
Lovely, right?
Actually using the Neocolors left me disappointed for more than the first year I had them. They would come off so bright on the page, though I tried to pick the most neutral tones on offer at the art supply store.
Every drawing I attempted with them, usually wetting the marks afterward, ended up looking so garish that I would immediately throw it out. Using them brought back child-like frustrations about the disconnect between what I imagined and what I could depict. Then, earlier this year, I finally got results that hinted at something for me. I’d been working hard on values—doing value studies, paring down my tool selections to only a few items that I knew could give me a dark, a mid, and a light.
Then, for an exercise in a class I was taking, I used only a single Neocolor II, relying on varied pressure to get that gradation in tone. I loved how the drawings turned out. The color was still very bold, but the pictures didn’t affront my eyes since there were whole areas that were more muted, lighter.
This was something new, carrying a whisper of promise, but I wasn’t yet sold. The crayons continued to sit on my shelf for a few more months. I wanted to love them. I wanted to want to reach for them all the time. But I just didn’t.
Then, scrolling Substack one day, I came across “Neocolors, A Love Story of Sorts,” by Dani Williams. That was it. I’d been roped into the internet kerfuffle about the Limited Edition, 50th Anniversary Neocolor II sets just released by Caran D’Ache. People hated that the company put three special edition colors in each of the five sets and made it clear they wouldn’t be releasing them outside of the sets. If you wanted all fifteen special edition colors, you had to buy all five sets (at $27.99 a piece).
I didn’t want all five sets, knowing I’d end up feeling immense guilt for spending all that money on an art supply I only WANTED to love, but didn’t. Yet. I spent days and days looking at the different sets though. Whenever I needed a distraction, that was where I went. Which colors were in each? Which colors did I already own? Which color ranges did I think I’d use the most?
My spouse, whose greatest flaw in life is humoring me, immediately ordered me the “Dark” set. Then, about a week later, when I couldn’t get the “Lush” set out of my mind, he ordered me that one, too. Then, and here’s when I stopped telling him about which one I was obsessing over, a few weeks after that, he ordered me the “Pastel” set. (He had some good excuses for this since it was then right around my 35th birthday and our 9th wedding anniversary. But still.)
That did it. We were too much money in the hole for those crayons to just sit on the shelf. I had to learn to love them. I couldn’t just look at them anymore or feel satisfied by their rainbow-bright glory, so orderly in their little red cases. I had to justify all this indulgence with use.
I joined the “Three Materials” challenge in August (hosted on Substack by Charlotte Durance) and drew every day, often pulling out a few Neocolors. And then, as my baby slept one afternoon—on the couch, not in a place where I could safely leave them to snooze on their own—I picked out three of the materials I had closest to hand, pulled up a picture I’d taken as part of the documentation for a long-standing project, and let myself explore. I couldn’t get up to get a cup of water to wet my Neocolor marks this time.
I drew, eyes flitting between my baby and my sketchbook and loving the bright marks I got with the Neocolor II. I finally understood why they’re called “pastels.” The vibrant color I’d been fighting, paired with the creamy texture of more expensive (and messier, and therefore less portable) oil pastels, caught me.
At last, I got it. The hype. The devotion. The obsession. I was hooked.
Now, they’re the supply I travel everywhere with. I’ve found out I can layer them with other kinds of pastels for interesting textures, and that they can give a very painterly impression without me ever picking up a brush.
What supply have you learned to love? How did you learn to love it? Or which do you want to love, but just don’t?
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