Art & Fear

Art

Writing and drawing/art-making are my passions, yet I often feel like Sisyphus rolling his huge boulder up the mountain every time I embark on an artistic endeavor. Why should this be? I'm not sure, but I know it has to do with at least two things: time and faith.

Time

What writing and art require more than anything else is time. Time to contemplate, revel, see, think and work. When you have to budget your time due to jobs, household duties and other obligations, it is a challange to budget creative time, which always seems the most expendible, the first thing to get lobbed off at the knees. Even when you do budgt for creative time, it's hard to guarantee you won't be exhausted or overwhelmed when you're supposed to be energetic and inspired. Forget the myth of the creative bolt of lightning. Having the will to create is all it takes to be creative. Still, that will can be easily eroded.

Faith

Will and faith are interconnected. Lack of faith is crippling to having the will tor work on that poem or to start that daunting sketch (and every sketch is daunting). Here are a few thoughts that get in the way:

The world is filled with art and writing. There's just so MUCH of it allready. Why bother?

My work isn't any good. I'm never satisifed and I'm not really an artist.

I'm just an amateur. I don't want my work to be amateur.

The counterarguments go like this:

So what? The means ARE the end. The true triumph of creating lies within creating itself -- the act matters more than the result. The creation of art is a revolutionary act, a defiance of complacence, an emphatic declaration of the vital, immortal persistance of the human spirit.

Drawing isn't about "being great." It's about drawing. It's about a meditative serendipitous task that is filled with frustration, delight and, most of all, surprise. It isn't really about the drawing -- it is all about the artist.

By the way, the best book I've read on the subject of how artists struggle with art-making is a book called Art & Fear by David Bayles and Ted Orland. It's a psychological gem that demystifies alot of "art drama."

The Drawing

I wanted to draw a particular Copper Beach tree. I took photos (sometimes considered a "no-no") and one day got as far as finding the right piece of paper I wanted to draw on. Then I lost steam. Unmotivated and deflated, I lacked the mental enthusiasm and acuity I needed to start. So I put the paper awa and left it for another day.

Several weeks later, having gotten a jump on the endless round of household chores that weekend, I decided to start fairly early in the day, before I got too sidetracked or worn out. I got my paper, my pencils, took a deep breath, and dove in.

I was afraid the drawing wouldn't go well, but I tried to put all those kinds of thoughts out of my head and started. This was the key moment. I completely focused on drawing, trying not to worry about the outcome. After the initial sketch, I started doing light shading, mapping out areas, skipping from one area to another. For hours I worked, doing my best to capture what I wanted to capture -- the strength, beauty and mystery of the tree. I was occasionally niggled by thoughts of the dirty floors I had yet to sweep, the dust clinging to the furniture everywhere in sight and the dirty clothes I needed to wash for the next work week, but for the most part I was able to resist those evil saboteurs.

Artistically, one of the biggest frustrations I face is with myself. I long for my style to be freer, looser, more gestural, less controlled. Generally I think my style is too tight, too anal, too literal. On the other hand, part of me revels in the illustrative quality of my work and I don't think it is spiritless or passionless. Just awfully compulsive.

I love doing it and I resist doing it.

Next comes the evaluation stage. Time to take a break, stand back, move around and give the work some distance. Does it need more shading? Which areas need more work? Should the background be left white? My instinct was to lay in some nice blue color with colored pencils. Or would that be overboard? Would it look amateurish? Screw it. I'm doing it anyway.

This all takes patience. Like most people I want instant gratification with the least possible effort. Though the effort feels good -- true, real and validating -- it's also work and it's occasionally a big risk. What if I invest all this time and energy and I hate the results? Well, that's the hard part. But none of it is ever wasted, because creative work is active and instructive. Every failed effort as value, sometimes even more than what we think of as "the successes."

The real trick is to forget about time as a commodity, an investment, or a means to an end. In other words, the best thing is to forget everything society ever taught you. Then it's all pure bliss.

I love the tension, the conflict, the challenge of making, deciding, adding, changing, trying to find resolution and balance without going to far, without overworking the think and ruining it. It also drives me nuts and is exhausting. But it's the most inspiring kind of exhaustion in the world.

Hours later, after leaving it for awhile, doing errands, coming back, I think it looks great. It's one of the best drawings I've ever done! Except for that flat part. How can I fix that? And what about the balance of darks and light. I think it needs to be touched up a bit. I think it needs work. Maybe it's not so great. Maybe it's even "bad." No, overall, I feel good about it. That's what counts. And I made something! I chose to wrestle. I didn't just lie down. I triumphed over lethargy and inertia. At least for now.

Finale

Is it done?

No.

Will it ever be done?

No.

But therein lies the real beauty. In the open doorway, the constant sky, the twirling cosmos, the undanceable danceable dance.