Fist Fighting with the Creative Process

“I love drawing,” I say as I clench my jaw and nearly flip the table over. I just screwed up yet another detail that ruined the entirety of my work. At this point in the drawing, it’s pretty much more faded lines and eraser smudges than it is a developing picture. I get so frustrated that I don’t understand exactly why I ever turned to art as a pastime. I rip the drawing in half and cast it aside.

I leave my apartment, and in town, there are these beautiful murals giving life to what would otherwise be plain brick walls. I walk into art galleries and stand jaw-dropped in awe of others’ work. Meanwhile, the sketch artist on the street is making this art stuff look way too easy, and I wince from a distance in jealousy. I just wanted to be inspired, but instead, I return to my apartment feeling bitter. I tell myself, “You’re just not that talented.”

I place the torn drawing in the folder that’s home to my other failed works of art. I thumb through all of them for a minute, remembering how excited I was to attack a blank piece of paper with color and emotion. I swear to myself that I’m going to return to it all when I feel motivated to do so.

And that’s the crux of the issue— this fist fighting with the creative process. I fall in love with the idea of what I want to produce, but I am never motivated to draw to a point of completion or satisfaction.

The moment the fingers on the page look too much like caterpillars, or that pop of color destroys the composition of the piece, it is so much easier to just walk away, to give in to that comfortable and familiar notion that I’m really just “not supposed” to be an artist than it is to keep drawing (only to be reminded that I’m “not that good”). While my drawing skills aren’t where I want them to be, at least I’ve totally mastered the mentality of self-doubt. I decide that that’s an art in and of itself, and I (for the millionth time over the span of years) elect to stop putting pen to paper.

In the following weeks, I spend my free time watching the movies on “My List” on Netflix, and I feel my brain beginning to rot from ceaselessly scrolling through social media. Eventually, I sit down with a blank piece of paper, a pen, and my recent thoughts, frustrations, and experiences. There I was. Drawing again.

This time, however, I am tired of trying to make a pretty picture. I am tired of striving for perfection. I am tired of comparing my work to that of others. As I sketched, I made the conscious decision to give up this idea of flawlessness and precision. Certainly, it still looks much more like faded lines and eraser smudges than it does a developing picture— but this time, this was the first time that I decided I didn’t care.

It wasn’t an easy decision to make. As I drew, I painstakingly swallowed my desire to rip the page in two— over and over again. Despite all of the imperfections and details that were kind of “off,” something began to emerge. It wasn’t what I initially intended, but I do believe it to be far more fascinating and telling of my emotions than that idea ever was. For the first time, I sat back and admired my work the same way I did those murals, galleries, and *swallows pride* that sketch artist’s work.

Over the course of several months, my once-perceived “failed” works of art came out of that folder. Some of them were taped back together and covered with paint; some of them were cut up, collaged together, and added to with sharpie, colored pencils, and charcoal. For some of them, I just started all over and practiced making that decision over and over again— the decision to not care that they didn’t look like works of Picasso or da Vinci. Ironically, the more I chose to overlook the fact that my process and work was not perfect, the better my artwork got.

And that’s the solution to the issue— to fall in love with the process of creating. It’s funny to think about now, but truthfully, it was my love for that process that made me turn to art as a pastime in the first place.

When I was a kid, I drew the sun in the top corner of the page, and I drew a house by pencilling in a triangle on top of a square. At six years old, I was fully aware that what I created did not look exactly like the great outdoors or the house I lived in (or any house for that matter)—but I didn’t care. Six-year-old me did not care when I revealed the masterpiece that was my drawing of our dog, Sassy, and my mom said, “That’s a great picture of a dinosaur!” I didn’t give up art. I laughed and said, “It’s Sassy! Look at her ears and the colors I used!” and was already on to my next Jackson Pollock.

What I’m trying to say is, I always loved the act of putting pen to paper. I always loved taking an idea and making it a part of my physical world. I always loved the process of creating. At some point in adulthood, I confused “creating” with “perfecting.” I cared what others thought about my work, and I especially cared that my work wasn’t as good as others. At some point in adulthood, I robbed myself of the love and freedom of simply creating.

Presently, I know that the creators of those murals could walk up to their work and point out every flaw within. I know that the sketch artist screwed up a detail or two but chose to finish the piece anyway. I also know that I love what I make because I make it—not because it looks anything like anyone else’s work. In fact, I’m relieved by that, and I never thought I would be. I know that every piece of art is imperfect, and that’s exactly what makes them perfect.

“I love drawing,” I say as I clench my jaw and nearly flip the table over. I just screwed up yet another detail that ruined the entirety of my work. At this point in the drawing, it’s pretty much more faded lines and eraser smudges than it is a developing picture. I get so frustrated, but thankfully, I press on. I remember that that is precisely why I ever turned to art as a pastime.