Loss makes artists of us all as we weave new patterns
in the fabric of our lives.
—GRETA CROSBY
Do you remember when your third-grade teacher asked you to write a poem or a story or draw a picture? Do you remember that most of us just did it without much thought? As kids, we knew how to draw pictures and feel delight in what we had done. With complete abandon, we could sing a song or dance in front of others. Most of us could move our bodies freely without feeling an ounce of self-consciousness.
Rarely a day goes by when my five-year-old granddaughter, Ruby, doesn't make something. She has a small table in the living room where she keeps crayons, markers, paper, scissors, and glue. Ruby doesn't scrutinize her own work. She declares what she will draw and draws it. Then, without apology, she shows her mother or father what she's done.
When did we stop making stuff for the pure joy of it? When did we stop thinking of ourselves as creative? When did we start telling ourselves that we don't have enough experience or talent, or that no one will take us seriously?
Did we give away our creative DNA? Did we allow our artistic expression to be taken away from us? Was it educated out of us? How did we develop such a narrow and critical vision of what art and creativity are that we could so easily exclude ourselves? And how can we reclaim our artistic expression, our creative juices?
Is this a time—when your heart is broken and you're grieving—that you can find solace in art? Perhaps choose to make something that speaks directly to your grief, such as a sacred altar, a collage, or a quilt made of strips of your lover's clothing? Or choose a project that has little to do with suffering, but emerges from other memories and joys, from something you've always wanted to explore? Can you find comfort in feeling the wetness of clay as you learn to throw a pot on a wheel, in seeing beauty through the lens of a camera, in touching the keys of a piano, in creating a new recipe, tuning a guitar, or just doodling?
For many of us, it is uncomfortable or frustrating to try something new, or to return to a creative practice such as dancing or playing an instrument in which you once excelled but are no longer accomplished. “You might be scared to start. That's natural,” writes Austin Kleon in Steal Like an Artist.1 The ground under your feet doesn't feel solid. Not knowing what you're doing, you might feel like a fake.
When you first start making art, will you stumble? Probably. Perhaps you have an image in your mind's eye of how fantastic it will be to knit your first sweater, and then it turns out lumpy. You dream of playing a beautiful piece—Haydn's “Trumpet Concerto in E-flat major”—but your lip hurts and you have to stop after ten minutes. You're making a delicate cut for a stained-glass project, inspired by a heron on a lovely wetland, and the glass shatters. Disappointed, you question why you ever thought about trying something creative, why you invested in materials or committed to a studio or a daily practice.
Try to quell those internal voices shouting, “failure.” Remind yourself that it's okay to “fail,” that it is even good to fail, and that failing is part of what it means to create or succeed; that it's the process or the journey that matters, not the result. Feeling more hopeful, or determined, consider signing up for a workshop, finding a coach, a guide, or others who may support you.
See if you can take comfort in the word amateur as someone who creates something because they love it, because they view their art as a gift to themselves and to those they care about.
Imagine yourself after a few weeks immersed in making things. Your days feel richer. If you're lucky enough to find a community of weavers, photographers, or knitters, you might dare share your insecurities, or what you've created. Some of these new people may even become your friends.
Poet, author, and teacher Jane Hirshfield describes the relationship between suffering, grief, and art: “We make art, I believe, partly because our lives are ungraspable, uncarryable, impossible to navigate without it. Even our joys are vanishing things, subject to transience. How, then, could there be any beauty without some awareness of loss, of suffering? The surprising thing is that the opposite is also true, that suffering leads us to beauty the way thirst leads us to water . . . . Art isn't a superficial addition to our lives; it's as necessary as oxygen. Amid the cliffs and abysses every life brings, art allows us to find a way to agree to suffering, to include it and not be broken, to say yes to what actually is, and then to say something further, something that changes and opens the heart, the ears, the eyes, the mind.”2
As you continue making things, it no longer matters whether you're able to write a perfect song, whether your film gets into a film festival, or whether you become an accomplished artist. What's important is doing the work, being in the arena, walking toward the mountain.3
Sit quietly for a few moments, noticing the feeling and flow of your breath, in and out. Say slowly, to yourself, the following phrases:
May I relax my inner critic.
May I allow myself to be a beginner.
May I find joy and meaning in making art.
Give yourself permission to be inspired:
Try making something today:
Odd things, like a button drawer. Mean
things, fishhooks, barbs in your hand.
But marbles too. A genius for being agreeable.
Junkyard crucifixes, voluptuous
discards. Space for knickknacks, and for
Alaska. Evidence to hang me, or to beatify.
Clues that lead nowhere, that never connected
anyway. Deliberate obfuscation, the kind
that takes genius. Chasms in character.
Loud omissions. Mornings that yawn above
a new grave. Pages you know exist
but you can't find them. Someone's terribly
inevitable life story, maybe mine.
—William Stafford