Let me begin with a slightly odd confession:
When someone teaches me something new or introduces me to something I wasn’t familiar with—I immediately name it after them. For example, I don’t have Alcea setosa growing in my garden, I have “Einat flowers”—Einaties—because Einat sent me the bulbs by mail during the second lockdown and patiently, devotedly taught me how to grow them successfully. They now reach almost three meters tall and have been blooming continuously for quite a while.
Same goes for other plants: the “Daniella” plant with the round leaves, which I first met through a sweet drawing Einat sent me at the end of a long day. I don’t even know its real name and I have no intention of finding out—it already has a name: Daniella.
There’s the “Ronit flower” we received from my beloved neighbor when we moved houses (I say “neighbor” and not “former neighbor” because she still lives in my heart), and there’s “Grandma Ruti the succulent,” which started from a tiny leaf with a baby root given to me by my dear grandmother, whom I’ve already written about at length.
With plants, this naming habit is especially fun—watering “Daniella” or marveling at how tall one of the Einaties grew overnight adds a whole new dimension to gardening.
This applies to other things, too: clothes bought on a fun day with a friend carry her name, gifts carry the name of the person who gave them, and so on.
When it comes to art supplies or techniques, I stick to the original names—but I still associate them with the person who introduced me to them. For example, semi-transparent, lightly textured parchment paper will forever be “Alejandra’s papers” (and when I think of her, they’re always tinted fuchsia).
A few years ago, I started following Hila Spitzer, a young and talented artist, on social media. Through her, I was introduced to the wonders of professional gouache paints. Not the giant tubs we all know from kindergarten or youth groups—but high-quality, richly pigmented water-based paints that come in metallic tubes, similar to oil paints.
A quick online search taught me that gouache comes from the French word gouache, which itself originates from the Italian guazzo, meaning “water-based paint.”
Beyond the amazement I felt at having lived over thirty years without discovering these amazing paints, I felt this deep joy (yes, I know that sounds a bit grandmotherly—but never mind) watching the perfect fit between an artist and a medium. That’s why, for me, gouache will always be “Hila’s paints.” They are her. If Hila were a material, she would be gouache—without a doubt.
I say this not only because of the magic she creates with them, but also because since then we’ve become friends, collaborated several times, and still consult each other regularly on work matters. Every time we talk, it feels warm, sincere, and light—very “gouache-like.” Now I’ll write a bit about gouache—and know that everything I write about it is also, in a way, about her. This comes from a place of genuine appreciation—no hidden agenda, I swear.
Back in high school, I thought that until I’d overcome the common fear of oil paints, I’d have to settle for acrylics. I never really liked them, to be honest. They always felt too plastic and dried too fast. But I never formally studied painting, so I didn’t know there were other options. Watercolors didn’t speak to me either. So I stuck with the acrylics—familiar and easy enough to control.
Later on, I moved into working with different materials and gradually abandoned my canvases and acrylics.
And then Hila came along.
Every once in a while, I make a point to learn something new in the world of art—a new material or technique I’m less familiar with (or completely new to). At the time, Hila herself was rediscovering gouache. She was sharing lots of artwork and process videos online, and I was deeply intrigued. So I jumped at the first opportunity and headed to a workshop she was teaching in South Tel Aviv (she teaches all over, by the way). Four hours of pure joy—thanks to the medium and thanks to Hila herself, whose approach as a teacher really speaks to me. She’s direct, accessible, grounded. She emphasizes the value of creative process not just for the final product (or even despite it), but as a way to cultivate attentiveness to self, well-being, courage, and playfulness—waking up soft, sleepy corners of the self that don’t get enough attention in everyday life. In my opinion, her philosophy fits beautifully—and naturally—with the essence of art in therapy.
Here’s the piece I painted in that workshop. Not perfect, but it reminds me of a good day:
A few days later, I bought myself a set of gouache paints—just the basic colors—and started to play. What can I say? Pure joy. These paints are flexible, incredibly versatile. They can behave like transparent watercolors or have the dense, textured feel of oil paints. Even when they dry out on the palette, you can reawaken them with a few drops of water—they come back to life immediately.
They work beautifully on all kinds of surfaces—from delicate papers to wood, and even walls. You can use a tiny brush or a big one. For me, they’re perfect: ideal for both major projects and casual sketchbook experiments.
When I introduce them to my adolescent clients—many of whom are still searching for a medium that really clicks for them—I see the spark in their eyes. The wonder. The relief that there’s a material that’s versatile, user-friendly, and not “for little kids.” Gouache, as they knew it, is suddenly new again. That moment of connection is so rewarding. It means I’ve helped them find the right tool for their creative impulse—both in therapy and at home. And I get to learn from them what else gouache can become. Every time that perfect match happens between teen and gouache (and it happens a lot!), I feel like I’ve cracked some part of the timeline—as if I’ve met my teenage self and handed her something that fits her perfectly in that moment. Sometimes I’ll send Hila a quick message: “Another successful match today,” and she knows exactly what I mean. It’s so heartening to have a connection like that—between people and between materials—in all its forms.
I hope there are more happy surprises like this waiting just around the corner.
