Reposted from a 2018 diary
Fear seems to be a big part of why I donāt create. Over the years, my own fears have eroded my desire to create and to push on. It is a strange thing, to be so in love with your craft, but to be terrified of it once you are faced with it.
One afternoon I was sitting in Starbucks. My time there was one continuous sigh. I go here to get away, to find time to relax, to allow my brain a release and a chance to recharge. And yet, I find myself in a panic each time I visited.
Thoughts such as Now is the time I must create. You donāt have much time. What do you want to do? No one will create your future but you blah blah blah. A phenomenal rainbow of thoughts, each color a different shade of fear and pressure.
I donāt know how it happened, but in my adult years, I have totally lost the ability to relax and to allow myself to drift through my work and what I do. My confidence was slowly stripped away by my own doing.
When you are sitting in a cafe, the last thing you want to be doing is thinking of this. Questioning yourself, who you are, your own competence and abilities. And yet without interruption, I have somehow made criticism my daily meditation.
I looked back at my accomplishments and felt nothing. All that I felt was what I hadnāt done, and what I should do from now. I looked at my goals from this past year, and all had yet to be accomplished.
Why is this? Is it because my crushing pressure and high standards of myself were taking their toll on me? Maybe I was messaging my boyfriend too much. Perhaps looking at too many images of artists who were doing better than me.
Was it because I still didnāt have the equipment that I wanted and needed? Or could it be that I didnāt actually believe in my own abilities and was just biding my time? Or maybe this age of digital wasnāt actually for me, and my world and creativity had been stunted by the endless possibilities. They said that more choice was worse than fewer choices.
I knew it was ridiculous. None of them made any sense when I thought it out. The pressure wasnāt real; I didnāt need to do anything I didnāt want to. I was free to create anything or to create nothing.
Thatās the thing about art, it shouldnāt be rushed and it shouldnāt be forced, no more than you can make water run down a stream quicker. You can only remove the rocks.
As for my boyfriend. Yes, probably. I tend to lose my own personal focus when Iām in a relationship. I canāt help but think of the fate of two lives than just my own. In a way, it's my own creative project, thinking about what the future will be like and what we could and should do.
It was also a slight addiction. I find solace in having a partner. It's fun, and always wonderful to have someone that cares about you, it's just not healthy to be careless about it.
Images. The vast, endless array of impeccable artists with incredible lives. They all say it's possible too ā to be like them, to do what they do. And of course, there is always that sliver of possibility that says if you follow the blueprint perfectly, you could do it as well.
But it's ridiculous to say that to someone who has an opposite life in a completely different situation. Itās not fair, and itās not reasonable. I always felt like they should put their focus on telling people they shouldnāt aspire to be them. Different people need and want different things, instead of continually getting bombarded with propaganda that tells them what their lives should look like.
As for equipment. Yes, maybe. That one could actually be possible. But it was still implausible why all my art suffered, and not just the side that required equipment.
One thing, I thought to myself; I was hardly ever creating. It was rare that I created, and it was rare that I made mistakes. I didnāt allow myself to. Something about it was too painful, coming short was painful.
But maybe what if it didnāt have to be? What if I didnāt even think about it, and allowed my body to go on autopilot with the art, forcing the side of the critique out? So long, you have overstayed your welcome in the gallery. And just let me be me.
Perhaps I was afraid to do things wrong. To share too much, to give too much away. To reveal pain and failure was to be one. Maybe though, just maybe, it wasnāt.