From "Can I?" to "I am": Why saying two words (yes and allowed) is more powerful than anything else I say in art class.
- Gabrielle Wood
- Mar 31
- 6 min read
The most common change I see in kids after coming to my classes is in their confidence in themselves. And it happens when I used two words "Yes" and "Allowed".
There is a moment that happens in every art class I run, and once you notice it, you can’t unsee it.
It begins with a question.
“Can I?”
Can I use this colour?
Can I mix these together?
Can I draw on this part?
Can I start again?
Can I do it like this?
The question comes quietly at first, sometimes barely audible, as though it might be the wrong thing to ask. It’s often paired with hesitation. A hovering hand, a glance sideways, a pause before committing. The child is not just asking for instruction. They are asking for permission. Permission to explore. Permission to try. Permission to exist creatively without getting it wrong.
And that question “Can I?” tells you so much.
It tells you that this child has learned, somewhere along the way, that there are right ways and wrong ways to create. That there are boundaries they might cross. That making something is not entirely theirs to own. It tells you they are used to being guided, corrected, or stopped. That before they begin, they are already measuring themselves against an invisible set of rules.
In those first moments of an art session, everything is careful. Movements are small. Choices are safe. Colours are predictable. The paper feels a bit too clean, the materials a bit too precious. Even the energy in the room reflects it — a quiet uncertainty, like everyone is waiting to see what is actually allowed.
Because for many children, this is unfamiliar territory.
They are not used to being allowed.
And that is the thing I notice most.
Not the skill level. Not the creativity (which is always there, waiting). Not the finished product. But that initial uncertainty, that ingrained habit of asking before doing. Of checking before exploring. Of seeking approval before trusting their own instinct.
But then, slowly, something begins to shift.
It doesn’t happen all at once. There’s no announcement, no clear turning point. It unfolds gradually, almost invisibly, like a ripple moving through the room.
One child decides to try something a little different. Maybe they mix two colours they weren’t sure would work. Maybe they use more paint than they think they’re “supposed” to. Maybe they turn the paper sideways. Nothing dramatic — just a small act of curiosity.
And nothing bad happens.
No one stops them. No one corrects them. No one tells them they’ve done it wrong.
So they try something else.
Meanwhile, another child watches. They notice. They see that nothing went wrong. That the world didn’t fall apart. That maybe… just maybe… they can try something too.
And so it spreads.
The questions begin to change.
“Can I?” becomes “What happens if I…?”
And then, eventually, something even more powerful emerges.
“I am.”
I am making a rainbow, but it’s not a normal one.I am mixing all the colours together to see what happens.I am doing it this way.I am adding more.I am not finished yet.
There it is, the shift.
From permission to ownership.From hesitation to confidence.From asking to declaring.
“I am.”
It’s such a simple change in language, but it reflects something much deeper. The child is no longer looking outward for validation. They are looking inward. They are making decisions. They are taking control of their creative process.
And once that shift happens, everything opens up.
The artwork changes, of course. It becomes bolder, more layered, more expressive. There are unexpected colour combinations, unusual shapes, ideas that don’t follow any template or expectation. But more importantly, the child changes.
They become more adventurous.
They start to take risks, not reckless ones, but curious ones. They test ideas. They experiment. They allow themselves to wonder, “What if?” without needing to know the answer first.
They start to trust themselves.
And that trust doesn’t come from being told “good job” or “that’s right.” It comes from experience. From trying something and seeing it through. From realising that even if it doesn’t turn out the way they expected, it’s still okay. It’s still theirs.
They’ve had time to test out ideas. To explore. To make decisions without interference. And in that space, something important grows — confidence that is rooted in self-belief, not external approval.
Another beautiful thing begins to happen as this confidence builds: they start to look around.
At the beginning of the session, children are often focused inward, unsure of themselves, quietly observing. But as they settle in, their awareness expands. They notice what others are doing.
“Hey, how did you make that?”“That looks cool.”“I want to try something like that.”
Inspiration begins to flow between them.
Not in a copying way, but in a shared creative energy. One idea sparks another. A colour choice here influences a decision there. A technique discovered by one child becomes a jumping-off point for someone else.
And with that comes conversation.
So much conversation.
It’s one of my favourite parts of these sessions, the constant, bubbling dialogue that fills the space. It’s not forced or structured. It just happens naturally as they create.
They talk about what they’re making.
They explain their ideas.
They ask each other questions.
They share stories that somehow connect to their artwork.
They negotiate, collaborate, laugh.
The laughter is my favourite. It comes in bursts, unexpected, genuine, shared. The kind that spreads quickly, lifting the whole room. It’s the sound of children feeling comfortable. Of being present. Of enjoying not just the act of creating, but the experience of being together.
Sometimes I wish I could bottle those moments so others could hear them. Because what’s happening in those conversations is just as important as what’s happening on the paper.
They are building confidence in their voice.They are learning to express ideas.They are connecting with others.They are discovering that their thoughts matter.
And all of this started with a simple shift from “Can I?” to “I am.”
By the end of the session, the room feels completely different from how it began.
The hesitation is gone.The carefulness has softened into freedom.The questions have transformed into statements, ideas, and stories.
There is a sense of ownership everywhere you look. Each child is immersed in their own creation, but also connected to the group around them. There’s pride, but not the kind that seeks approval. The kind that comes from knowing, “I made this.”
And perhaps the most powerful part of all is this:
They didn’t need to be taught how to be creative.
They already were.
What they needed was permission.
Or more accurately, they needed to realise that permission was never required in the first place.
That’s what these art play classes are really about.
Yes, there are materials. Yes, there are activities. Yes, there is paint and colour and texture and mess. But underneath all of that is something much more meaningful.
It’s about creating a space where “no” is replaced with “yes.”
Yes, you can try that.Yes, you can make a mess.Yes, you can change your mind.Yes, you can do it differently.Yes, you can trust your idea.
For children who are used to hearing “no”, or even just used to needing to ask, this can be transformative.
Because when a child hears “yes” often enough, something shifts inside them.
They stop second-guessing.
They stop waiting
They start initiating.
They start believing.
And that belief doesn’t stay confined to the art table.
It follows them.
Into how they approach problems.Into how they express themselves.Into how they see their own capabilities.
It rewires their relationship with creativity.
Not as something that must be done correctly, but as something that belongs to them.
And that is the heart of Bundabubs art play classes.
It’s not about producing perfect artwork. It’s not about teaching children to stay within the lines. It’s not about outcomes at all, really.
It’s about saying, over and over again, in ways both spoken and unspoken:
You’re allowed.
You’re allowed to explore.You’re allowed to experiment.You’re allowed to make something unexpected.You’re allowed to trust yourself.
And when children truly understand that, not just intellectually, but through experience — everything changes.
They walk in asking, “Can I?”
And they leave saying, “I am.”
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