Why do we turn ourselves inside out for art?
This is a question I ask myself regularly! It’s helpful to hear that other even accomplished artists like Meera Patel feel the same way—what is the use of making art, anyway? I also know that hopelessness is one of many emotions that rolls through me on any given day—and this is true for most if not all artists. There’s also excitement, resistance, flow, reluctance, soaring confidence, self doubt. The list goes on. The answer, of course, is to hang on, do the work anyway, with the understanding that doubt and fear and all the other negative feelings are as much a part of the creative territory as joy.
Just today Carolyn Yoo reminded me:
“What’s helped me break the myth of needing to always enjoy my practice is the reminder that creation is labor. You are making something from what was previously nothing! You are bringing your work into existence. No one would fault a mother birthing a child for experiencing messy feelings and all sorts of pain during labor (I hope). Flow state and joy may be an ideal state, but should it be the metric we measure our creation upon?
What matters is that you showed up, despite the chaos of your feelings and thoughts, and created something. Some of those days felt great, others not so much. Maybe all of it felt terrible. But you did it—you made the thing. And you will make more.”
I’m saying this out loud because while I may know the truth of creative practice, in those dark moments—and it happens more often than I’d like—I forget.
See what else I’ve added to my home on the interwebs lately.
Believe in Her
Oh my gosh, this was such an emotional piece. I had been working with the much younger part of me, my creative self, trying to get back in touch with that fearful little girl huddled in the back corner of, well, me. I kept asking her questions: What are you afraid of? Where does all that self-doubt come from? Why can’t you just stand up for yourself?
By the tone of those questions, anyone (but me, apparently) might note that I wasn’t exactly speaking (to her by which I mean myself) kindly or with empathy. Maybe even a little aggressively…with some kind of underlying accusation…? Not surprisingly, no answers came.
And then I journaled:
…5/22/26 What is my wound? I was always a dreamy kid, loved books and imagination…reflection, introspection…making things. Building worlds for Barbies (systems?) Organizing “clubs” for the neighbor kids. Creating projects—May Day baskets, readers digest trees, girl scout crafts, a novel with my friend Lynda, making wood scrap stuff. I wanted to write. Poetry with Katrina. That story with Lynda. Diaries. Later the Literary Mag in high school, then an English major in college. etc. See adult careers. Blogs.
But I always struggled! Highly self critical, I regularly started something and then lost my motivation. I compared myself to others and I was never as good as_____” fill in the blank with childhood friends and then adult colleagues, friends and acquaintances.
I saw the same pattern when I began to make art. I had this same BIG YEARNING to create, but there I went again with the comparision and self criticism and start-stop stuff…
So what is the wound?
Self Doubt for sure. My belief is that my creative self is not good enough to make art. I tend to see struggle as proof. Since I struggle, I must not be good enough.
If Kening Zhu’s wounded creative self was an invalid*—a child in need of protection—what is mine?
A cowering child, alone in a corner. Abandoned.
[Now we see where the image in the artwork comes from].
…My adult self perseveres, damn it. I will not give up on this BIG YEARNING. I recognize that if I want creative expression this much then it must be true that I’m supposed to do it…and yet, I’ve left that child alone. I’ve given up on her…or maybe I am the scared child whose adult self doesn’t believe in. Ah. That is true…
I don’t believe my creaitve self is goo enough to be a a (good) writer or visual artist. My adult self is critical. Sees mistakes. Is a perfectionist. Is unforgiving of failure.—failed attempts. She’s also under the impression that if someone IS good at something it should com easily…
So what do I have to do to heal this wound?
Well, my creative self needs needs someone to believe in her! Neither creative self or other self has even had someone who believes in her…and it’s long past time to look for parents to do the believing in…I need to parent my (little self)…
…just because I’ve had this realization here and I’m writing about it doesn’t mean I’m doing it. I need to actually engage in the work of believing in my creative self. And she needs to come out of the corner, dry her tears, and quell her fears because someone has—I have—her back. And we need to start creating from a belief state.
And so, after this pretty big lightbulb moment in my journal, I turned to my sketchbook and made this page—and the words there came. Interestingly in 3rd person. We contain multitudes.
*Kening Zhu, linked by Carolyn Yoo, really helped spur this whole line of questioning. I’m sure I’ll talk more about both of these online marvels at another time.
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Hmmm, I liked this practice
“If your goal is to carve out your own creative path, then over time, I hope that you go from asking, “Is this right?” to asking, “Is this right for me?” Amy Maricle, Mindful Art Studio
I found myself recently going through my sketchbooks and I came across my Jan-March art journal pages from last year, 2025. I had been experimenting with the morning pages concept—aka Julia Cameran The Artist’s Way —using image rather than text. Or more accurately, doing a brain dump first thing in the morning with image (and some text) rather than straight writing as she recommends.
Anyway, I’m pleased with those pages now an I am sorry I stopped making them. Why did I stop? It was a good practice, really, and I like many pieces of them.
I don’t think it was so much a journaling practice—which for me is writing to think about what I’m thinking about—but as an art practice. I spent almost every morning drawing what came, and over time images accumulated across one page to the next. Those drawings came from a different part of my brain, I think, as I allowed myself more freedom to let whatever came to mind come to the surface. I didn’t insist that it made much sense. I think if I’d kept going, I would have refined and deepened the practice and refined a visual language for myself.
I know why I cut that exploration short. We moved. And when the moving dust had settled I’d talked myself into choosing other ways to fill that precious morning time. But I wonder. Should I pick this pracitce back up?
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