Painting = self-cutting, Y/Y?
There seems to be a theme running through almost all of the recent essays I see, on or off LJ, that tackle either writing or art: that the act of growing, learning, and expanding in either is an inherently painful experience. Lots of adjectives like "shredding", "tearing", "agonizing" and "depressing" are used to describe the experience. It seems like there's this miasma around the act of creating, as if to grow to the next stage, to get better at what we do, is an excerise akin to flaying the skin off our forearms and gleefully rubbing lemon juice in, all the while chanting "It's for the art, baby!"
Don't get me wrong . . . I do believe that the act of growing as a creator and as a crafter has rough patches, that there are pains, and that sometimes, suffering is good for us. I used to be *all* about growth through pain. But now, I question: How much of that creative pain is actually born of the process, and how much of it is self-flagellation?
I'm guilty of it. When I know I'm having a tough time of it, when I know that I need to work on my discipline or that I'm on the verge of something breaking through, my thought process is always the same-- it sounds like my muse is giving birth. "Come on! You can do better! You can BE better! Just push, push, push harder! Shove it through, rend yourself to pieces, make it WORK . . . and if you can't, well, you just weren't made to be one of the greats. It doesn't matter if it's good enough, it should be PERFECT."
Here's the catch: it never, ever works for me. Maybe it does others, but . . . any baby my muse bears under that duress turns out premature or missing its proverbial brain pan. Technically, it won't be bad, but burbling life that could be in it has been left behind somewhere in the grinder of my subconcious. I'm left exausted, self hating, and drained of any desire to continue save for one: do it again. Make it better. NOW.
How much of that could I strip away by just . . . letting go? Letting it be?
And I notice this in other creative types around me, all the time. Not everyone, but enough that it piques me. Where is that line between natural pain, and the agony and angst we project onto the process?
I think it happens for a lot of reasons. Many creative types are also "outcast" types in other ways. Some of us never really fit in; maybe that's why we still can't feel comfortable even doing something we love. Perhaps it's the cultural myth of the artist or writer as crazy, depressed, or tortured. A big part of it for me is feeling *unworthy* of what I'm creating, or that to make something magnificent, there's a price to be paid. My suffering is the blood tithe to my muse (which is inherently unfair and counter productive-- my muse is NOT a vampire, thanks, and she becomes hurt when I try to pretend she's one, and tends to go away).
Whatever the cause, the effect is the same. My breakthroughs, the pieces that really stand out, the writing that connects best with my audience, are always the ones that are created in joy and inspiration. So why do I, why do we creators, hurt ourselves so much for what we do?
Don't get me wrong . . . I do believe that the act of growing as a creator and as a crafter has rough patches, that there are pains, and that sometimes, suffering is good for us. I used to be *all* about growth through pain. But now, I question: How much of that creative pain is actually born of the process, and how much of it is self-flagellation?
I'm guilty of it. When I know I'm having a tough time of it, when I know that I need to work on my discipline or that I'm on the verge of something breaking through, my thought process is always the same-- it sounds like my muse is giving birth. "Come on! You can do better! You can BE better! Just push, push, push harder! Shove it through, rend yourself to pieces, make it WORK . . . and if you can't, well, you just weren't made to be one of the greats. It doesn't matter if it's good enough, it should be PERFECT."
Here's the catch: it never, ever works for me. Maybe it does others, but . . . any baby my muse bears under that duress turns out premature or missing its proverbial brain pan. Technically, it won't be bad, but burbling life that could be in it has been left behind somewhere in the grinder of my subconcious. I'm left exausted, self hating, and drained of any desire to continue save for one: do it again. Make it better. NOW.
How much of that could I strip away by just . . . letting go? Letting it be?
And I notice this in other creative types around me, all the time. Not everyone, but enough that it piques me. Where is that line between natural pain, and the agony and angst we project onto the process?
I think it happens for a lot of reasons. Many creative types are also "outcast" types in other ways. Some of us never really fit in; maybe that's why we still can't feel comfortable even doing something we love. Perhaps it's the cultural myth of the artist or writer as crazy, depressed, or tortured. A big part of it for me is feeling *unworthy* of what I'm creating, or that to make something magnificent, there's a price to be paid. My suffering is the blood tithe to my muse (which is inherently unfair and counter productive-- my muse is NOT a vampire, thanks, and she becomes hurt when I try to pretend she's one, and tends to go away).
Whatever the cause, the effect is the same. My breakthroughs, the pieces that really stand out, the writing that connects best with my audience, are always the ones that are created in joy and inspiration. So why do I, why do we creators, hurt ourselves so much for what we do?