Watercolor of purple and magenta flower clusters. I would tell you what kind, only I’m not really sure if they actually exist. Five thin, spikey petals each, except for the buds.
It has happened that while reading my old journals, I’ve had a sense of going around in circles. Year after year, it seems, the same painful obsessions, the same unresolved insecurities and unexorcised fears. And yet, a second look often discloses that successive entries on old themes reveal inklings of new insights, greater clarity of thought, deeper understanding of emotion. What appears at first to be a circle is more often a spiral, too tightly coiled for my liking perhaps, but not entirely closed. What may look like “treading water” is simply a rest stop leading up to the next plunge forward into the unknown.
- Marion Woodman, Addiction to Perfection
I first read these words in my mid 20s. Never before had I felt so seen. Nor have I in the 25 or so years since. When I go back through my journals, I am constantly shocked at the endlessly repeating patterns. Thanks to Woodman’s words, I have become more aware of them without even necessarily needing the written evidence. Sometimes, it just hits me that I’m turning another round in the spiral.
Like right now. Only this time, it feels more like the open end of a fibonacci spiral, so far I am from the last go round.
Those of you who followed my old blog might remember me talking about my struggles with creative self-doubt. This has caused me to immerse myself in art as if starving, and then retreat when it didn’t look like I wanted it to. (It never looks like it does in my head.)
A couple of weeks ago, I decided to try watercolor. The class I started with set it up more like meditation than making art. I think this is what kick-started the immense shift I’ve experienced in the interim.
Finally…(finally!)...I have learned to push the critical voice aside and let curiosity lead. This is a state I’ve been reaching for since that fateful conversation I wrote about (in the linked post above) with my so-called “teacher” almost 30 years ago. I’ve read about it over and over. Just let go of expectations and see what happens. Be in the process and let the product take care of itself. Make a mark, respond to that mark, see where it leads you. But no matter how hard I tried, even though I managed to work around the nagging voice in my head, it was still there, and it colored my opinion of every single thing I created.
And, suddenly, it’s almost like it’s gotten too old to speak clearly. As if the years of yelling about what a terrible artist I am destroyed its vocal chords to the point where it can only manage a papery whisper. How did this come about? I honestly have no idea. It’s every bit as mysterious as it seemed when I read about it. This mystical ability to set aside judgement.
Don’t get me wrong. I still look at my work when I’m done and see what needs work, where I wish I had done things differently. The difference is that I am no longer allowing it to define my worth - as an artist, or as a human.
So, what does all of this mean? It means I am ready to spill myself onto the page. Painting, drawing, writing…(because, yeah, I had a terrible writing teacher living rent free in my head for years, as well. But he seems to have been much weaker all along.) It means I feel a lifetime of restricted creativity ready to erupt. It means I am no longer willing to hold myself back because of the echoes of an artist who should never have been allowed to teach.
Where will it ultimately lead? I have no idea. But won’t it be fun to find out?
We don’t really know where this goes, and I’m not really sure we care.
- Bob Ross