You know how most people have some form of creative dysmorphia, whereby the afflicted is convinced– despite that freaking incredible life-like miniature version of the Sistine Chapel you just saw them whip up out of stuff from the recycling like some sort of trash transforming magician, or the fact their art does, indeed, hang in places where you pay $8.95 for a small, glass, non-resealable bottle of water– that they’re nothing more than a crusty old artistic flounderfish?
I have concerns I might be the opposite. That even with the endless piles of genuine claptrap I churn out, I still do, in fact, hold an unreasonable amount of affection for the things I make.
Worse still, I find some of them delightful.
And I know what you’re thinking: Christ! Her head is massive! Which means, now I have to spend the rest of our time together convincing you I’m not a total wanker. An understandable suspicion, should you have it.
Because the thing is, we’re not trained into these types of self-supporting viewpoints, are we?
I mean, if we’re running with the usual program, it would be right about now that you’d expect a sneaky back pedal. A cheerful, “Ha! I got you! I mean, obviously I’m joking! Old fart tulip over here?! Allow me to resume my over-thinking and repeatedly pierce my own heart using nothing but my pre-frontal cortex”.
And then we could all relax and crack on. Normal order has been restored. Thank God for that!
I’m not sure I’ve ever had someone show me their work and say, Isn’t this just brilliant? I really love it! And if I have, I’ll have to think really hard to remember it.
But there is something undeniably strange about the sheer number of us crapping on ourselves consistently.
That given there are so many of us out there making things (and I calculated the exact figure as: Shitloads) shouldn’t loving your own work, maybe even having some kind words to say about it, be more of a thing? Even just based on stats, the fact it’s not is kind of bonkers.
I mean, sure there’s things I write or draw or make that I’m not in love with. I have the same neuroses as anyone else. I’m not conducting some creative narcissistic fuckery over here. No, what I’m talking about is creative self-deprecation (and sometimes, loathing) as the default.
Where dragging a happy thought out of someone about their own work is as easy as extracting blood from a month old carcass that’s been left lounging in the desert.
There’s a lot of psychological trickery involved in this whole game. To be fierce with your own joy, to loudly proclaim you love something you made or dare I say it – that you might be good at something- must mean by definition that you have moved the rest of humanity into deficit. That you have claimed a position of superiority. That you’re a greedy little creative catfish.
But then: we all know that creativity isn’t a zero sum game.
I see an uncountable amount of things each day that are soaked in brilliance. I sit around the table at my local sketch club and feast on the incredible things that appear at all sides; drawings, block prints, etchings, botanical paintings. And at no point do I feel my profuse enthusiasm of their undeniable loveliness takes anything away from me. The opposite actually: I bask in their afterglow for days.
I read essays, books, the creations of people I work with, ogle movies and say out loud wherever possible, That was amazing! You must be so proud you made that! It must be something of supreme magnificence to live in a body capable of such a thing!
It seems strange that we’re allowed to feel that way about everyone’s work except our own.
And even if “like your work” feels like a stretch, can we not at least find it somewhat charming? Charm’s an underused and underrated word, don’t you think?
There’s so much charm in a child’s drawing, in the lines of a beginner, in the try. Yes! There’s SO much gosh dang charm in someone just trying, that when we witness it we use animated facial expressions and talk loudly to encourage them to continue.
Carry on! Our happy, flappy hands will say!
Perhaps it’s time to turn a bit of that same wiggly-bodied enthusiasm on ourselves?
I know when I sent in my book illustrations to the editor and design departments (terrifying) it occurred to me that the whole process was so alarmingly subjective. And while we might have to wait for ‘approval’ in some areas, in our creative life generally we need zero permission to be merry. To look at what we make with the ol’ kissy lips.
Because the endless criticism and playing it down? It gets boring and exhausting.
Perhaps creative joy- or its beginnings- is as easy as just deciding? That’s it’s yours for the taking after all?
I mean, what would be the point of waking up to this incredible life and wasting your time thinking that the things you make are twaddle, or the words that you procure are dull and useless, or that your lines appear only to find themselves rubbed out?
We’re all here to experiment and be curious and learn and play, aren’t we?
What would be the point of crapping on our own heads?
Between you and me, it seems there’s no point at all.
In labrador-like admiration of your creative zeal,
xx Jane
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