It’s been far too long since I’ve updated the ol’ blog, and I guess part of the reason is that I’ve been practicing the art of processing my thoughts within rather than outwith. But there’s something about sharing thoughts, feelings, and emotions with strangers that allows me to process them differently than writing in a completely private journal. I wonder, do others go through this?
When I really think about it, it must come from the assumption that someone will read this. At least one soul in the universe will stumble across this blog. Therefore the thought must be articulated. Articulation requires more care and attention. The processing of the thought and feeling happens as the words flow through my fingers to the keyboard. Like self-therapy. I write something and think about it from an outside perspective, as if I were speaking to someone directly. In a private journal the words flow quickly without editing. They are raw. Not that my blog isn’t…It’s just polished slightly. Like, I actually try to spell everything correctly.
Anyways, earlier today I sat down to write and noticed a few old draft posts that I had forgotten about. As I read through them, I couldn’t help but laugh. They are full of angsty feelings, struggles, thoughts that I might expect from a young person stumbling through life. Then I remember…when I wrote them I was a young person stumbling through life. The same struggles seem to repeat themselves over the years. How can something I felt in 2018 still be so relevant as if it were yesterday? I guess I’m still stumbling.
Many of those old posts were extremely heartfelt and vulnerable. And although I share a lot here, there are some things I just can’t seem to bring myself to publish.
As an early-adopter of the internet I’ve experienced the creation of Livejournal, MySpace, Facebook and more. All of which were revolutionary in their time. All of which were created to give us a space to share. To put something out into the void. To say “Hey, I’m here. And this is what I feel.” In fact every good thing that has happened to me is because I took a chance and was vulnerable to a stranger.
But wow. I cringed so hard when I read those old posts. They are actually very difficult to read as a nearly 40 year old. They made me question everything I’ve ever blogged. Will I be cringing that hard in 10 years about what I write today?? Maybe.
I like the idea of a slow-drip record of what I’ve gone through as an artist. Or even just as a human. The ups and downs.. just figuring it out as I go. The same as I was when I was 18. And over the years of blogging, I’ve come to rely on the self-therapy it provides. I’ll have to embrace the potential of cringing in the future, in order to get through the now.
Another great thing I’ve discovered about writing my thoughts is that it gives weight to meaningful things I should think about more, and releases those that don’t serve me. When I write something I can instantly tell the difference.
So I’ll continue to use this as my safe space to share those thoughts and feelings.
Self-Critique
The act of self-critiquing isn’t just related to art. We can and should do it daily to improve as a human. Critique isn’t harmful, it is necessary for growth.
I recall my college days when the entire class gathered around my project and took turns explaining why it was good and bad. That’s the key - good constructive criticism is sandwiched between positives. What worked? What didn’t? What can we improve next time? Those experiences instilled a healthy appreciation for critique and I’m able to apply it to my daily art practice.
Failure is a daily part of an artist’s life, and without a way of understanding it, chances of getting past it are slim. When I say failure I mean anything- even as simple as drawing a circle. Let’s be honest, drawing a perfect circle is nearly impossible. Recognizing that is step one. Step two is trying again. And again. Eventually we might be able to draw a nearly-perfect circle. This idea can be applied to anything: drawing the human form, color mixing, painting, music, language.
Expect millions of small failures throughout your artistic life, and they won’t catch you by surprise or devastate you. See each little failure as a lesson. Our minds are pretty good at catching a mistake and adjusting. It reminds me of when I was learning to play the ukulele. At first nothing worked. After a few months of almost daily practice, I could play a song. I was internalizing every mistake whether I realized it or not, and making tiny adjustments until it worked.
Can it be frustrating at times? Hell yes. But no one was ever born being able to speak fluent languages, play a concert, or paint a picture. Every skill in life is learned.
I turn 40 next February, and it has been weighing heavily on me. Not because I’m holding onto my youth, but because it was the number I expected a lot of things to have happened in life, which haven’t happened yet.
For one, I was to be living in a house I owned. I was to have a physical studio space nearby in which I would teach classes. I was to have at least 5 cats. You know, the important things.
I don’t know what it is about reaching a new decade that makes us take stock in our life. I can logically see it’s just another number. Another year in the great journey. But 40 has that connotation of being mid-life which makes me hyper-aware that my life is half over (if I’m lucky). Maybe that’s OK, because the first half was tough. Maybe the second half will be even better. At least now I have the wisdom and self awareness of those years to work with. Because of that I am hopeful. And yet aging is bittersweet. As my mind and body slowly decay over the next few decades, my artist spirit will be filled with endless inspiration as I continually put myself in the way of beauty. Is that a sad or a beautiful thought? That in our last moments we are physically fading, but our spirit is more full and alive than ever before?
I hope none of this sounds morbid or complain…y. Complainy. Still working on that spelling thing.
Anyways, it’s just me processing as I type. From a place of curiosity and always striving to be a better version of myself.
All this is to say, I’m back.