Essays

Frustration and interruption are the twin specters that haunt the artist’s journey, lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce when least expected. It is an uneasy dance, one that requires a certain resilience, a willingness to grapple with the chaos that inevitably arises. In fact, I would posit that frustration—along with its first cousin, disappointment—is not merely an obstacle but the very essence of the artistic process. It is the crucible in which the true mettle of an artist is tested, where the raw material of experience is forged into something tangible and meaningful.

This journey of creation is not a linear path adorned with glittering highlights; it is a winding road fraught with pitfalls and potholes. One does not simply glide from one dazzling experience to another, collecting accolades like a child gathering smooth stones from a riverbank. No, the process of creation demands that one confront the difficult, the challenging, the downright maddening. There is a certain sweetness that comes only after tasting the sour, a truth that resonates deeply in the heart of any artist worth their salt. The struggle, the frustration, is what makes the triumphs feel profound, what gives them weight in a world so often unyielding.

What I find particularly illuminating is how an artist’s response to these frustrations becomes the measure of their vocation. It is not enough to simply endure; one must learn to hold oneself together through the storm. This is where the real work lives—amid the uncertainty, the self-doubt, and the cacophony of external voices. It is an exercise in humility, an acknowledgment that the act of creation is, at its core, a deeply personal venture that requires an unwavering commitment to one’s vision.

For those who aspire to be professional artists or makers, there exists a sobering truth: rejection is not merely a possibility; it is a certainty. If you cannot stomach the thought of your creations being cast aside, if the sting of criticism cuts too deeply, then you are done before you even begin. The art world is not a gentle place; it is a battleground where only the brave dare tread. To forge ahead, one must cultivate a certain detachment from the work itself. Once the creation leaves your hands, it is no longer yours to control. It becomes a living entity, subject to the whims of the world, and your part in its existence is complete.

This is the crux of the matter: if you truly love your work—if it is a passion that courses through your veins—you will embrace the “shit sandwich” that often accompanies it. The act of creating is not a glamorous endeavor; it is messy, unrefined, and fraught with challenges. Yet, therein lies the beauty. The most humbling choice you can make is to devote yourself to this craft, to peel back the layers and uncover the hidden beauty that resides within the struggle.

In the end, it is through the frustration, the interruptions, and the heart-wrenching disappointments that we find our most profound truths. It is a journey that demands everything and offers little in return, yet, if one remains steadfast, the rewards—however elusive—are worth the price paid. The artist’s vocation is not merely to create but to endure, to find solace in the act of creation itself, and to share that beauty with a world that often forgets to look closely. In that, we find our purpose, our calling, and ultimately, our humanity.

Every work of art needs a spine— a sinewy thread woven through the fabric of creation, an underlying theme that whispers from the shadows of the mind, nudging the artist forward, a guiding star for the wandering soul. This spine does not need to be apparent, nor does it require the audience's approval. It exists primarily for the creator, a silent companion in the tumultuous journey of bringing something new into existence. Without it, the art risks becoming a flotsam of thoughts, drifting aimlessly on the surface, vulnerable to the tides of distraction that swirl around our chaotic lives.

In the depths of this creative process, the spine emerges as a lifeline, a resolve wrapped in the quietude of night, where doubts and fears tend to converge, each shadow a specter of inadequacy, whispering that vulnerability is a burden to be shunned. Yet it is within this very vulnerability that the spine finds its strength, for it dares to challenge the boundaries of what is permissible to share.  

Art becomes an act of rebellion, a defiance against the constraints of societal expectations, a bold proclamation that what lies within must be bared to the world, even when it trembles in fear. What is permissible to share? This question hangs heavy, like the weight of a thousand unspoken truths. Yet the artist knows, deep within the marrow of their bones, that the most profound connections are forged in the fires of honesty, in the rawness of experience that transcends the mundane.  

Thus, we must trust our own madness, that untamed spirit that flickers like a sparkler 

in the darkness of our thoughts. This madness does not lead us astray; rather, it guides us to the heart of our art, the essence of our being, where the spine meets the flesh, where the underlying themes pulsate with a fierce heartbeat. To trust this madness is to embrace the chaos, to dive into the depths of our own psyche, to explore the jagged edges of our existence and emerge with something iridescent, something that resonates with the truth of our being.

In the end, it is the spine that anchors us amidst the storm, reminding us that every brushstroke, every word, every note, is part of a larger narrative, a testament to our struggle, our triumphs, our flaws. And in this dance of creation, we find not just art,  

but the very essence of ourselves, and in sharing it, we invite others to join us on this wild, glorious ride, a journey through the labyrinth of our minds, where madness and clarity intertwine, and we discover that, indeed, we are all beautifully imperfect, each spine a testament to the power of creation, the audacity of existence.

When I was a little girl, I used to write notes— not the kind that you’d pass in class, folded like origami cranes,  but tender missives to the world, curled and nestled in the crevices of ancient trees in the woods behind our house. I fancied I was communicating with the animals, the trees, the birds, all the spirits that roamed the shadows, hoping, perhaps foolishly, that someone, something, might understand me, this small, restless heart yearning for connection.  

The woods were a cathedral of dappled light, where I would lay among the wildflowers, the sunbeams dancing through the leaves, dreaming of a world that made me feel as happy as those moments spent in the embrace of nature. I would drift in and out of reverie, the whispering breeze cradling my thoughts, until the rustle of leaves would draw me back, and I would freeze, eyes wide, as deer ventured into my secret sanctuary.  They were delicate creatures, graceful and timid, yet curious, and I would hold my breath, afraid to shatter the spell that bound us, afraid to disturb the fragile peace that hung in the air like the scent of honeysuckle. Sometimes, a deer—a little bolder than the others— would step closer, its big brown eyes searching mine, and in those moments, I felt the pulse of the universe, as if the very essence of life had paused, just for me.  

Those encounters were sacred, a balm for the ache of a childhood colored by the chaos of a family that never quite fit together. In the presence of the deer, I found solace, a fleeting reprieve from the loud voices and heavy hearts that filled our home. They were a sense of peace in a time of great stress, a reminder that beauty could exist even amid the thorns of despair.  

Years passed, as they tend to do, but the memory of those afternoons lingers still, like the scent of earth after a rainstorm. I think now of those notes, how I tucked my secrets into the crevices, hoping they might carry my dreams to the winds, the trees, the creatures, as if my heart could whisper to the very heart of the world. And perhaps they did— for in the quiet spaces of my life, where the noise fades and the light filters through, I find the deer still watching, still reminding me that there is peace to be found in the wildness of being, that understanding exists in the most unexpected of places.

Here’s what I know for sure: the nature of art is transformation, much like the shifting seasons that govern the Southern landscape. One day, the world is a riot of color, and the next, it is a sepulcher of browns and grays, a reminder that even the most vibrant life must eventually wither. This unyielding truth applies to art as surely as it does to the living, breathing beings who create it. It is a law as immutable as gravity, and yet, many of us fight against it as if we could will our artistic selves into a stasis that defies the very essence of our humanity.

The artist’s journey is not a straight path; it is a winding road fraught with detours and dead ends. Some may find their direction swiftly, gliding through their creative endeavors with a certainty that seems almost otherworldly. They are the ones who, with each brushstroke or pen stroke, seem to be in dialogue with the universe, drawing inspiration from the ether as if by divine right. They are the favored children of fate, or so it appears from the outside.

Then there are those of us who take longer routes, who veer off the main road to explore the thickets and brambles. We find ourselves wandering in the wilderness of self-doubt, where the shadows loom large and the path is obscured. We may feel, at times, like explorers lost in a foreign land, yearning for the compass that will guide us back to our true selves. Yet, it is in these detours, these moments of uncertainty, that we often uncover the richest soil for growth. The soil is dark and loamy, teeming with the remnants of our fears and failures, and from it, we are able to cultivate the seeds of our truest expression.

And let us not forget the artists who, like weary travelers, hop on and off the bus of creativity, constantly seeking the next destination. They ride the waves of inspiration, sometimes disembarking when the tide turns against them, only to find their way back again when the current shifts. This, too, is part of the process—the ebb and flow of artistic identity, a rhythm that mirrors the pulse of existence itself.

It is crucial to accept that we are human beings, flawed and finite, living within the frail confines of our own mortality. We cannot be “on” all the time; such a demand is an affront to the very nature of our being. There will be days when the words refuse to come, when the colors seem dull and the canvas mocks our attempts. But in these moments of stillness, in the gaps between creation, we find the space to reflect, to breathe, and to simply be. It is in this quietude that we gather the strength to rise again, to embrace the change that is both inevitable and necessary.

So, let your art change. Let it twist and turn, grow and contract like the heartbeat of a living thing. Embrace the uncertainty, the detours, and the moments of stillness, for they are all part of the grand tapestry of your artistic journey. And remember, in the grand scheme of life and art, there is beauty in every phase, every ebb and flow, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit.

In a world that often seems to prioritize the superficial over the substantial, the notion that one possesses everything necessary to create art that matters can feel both liberating and daunting. The artist, in their quiet moments of reflection, discovers that the tools for creation lie not in the external accolades or the pristine studio, but rather within the very essence of their existence. You have everything you need to create parts that matter, to weave together the threads of your own experience, and to illuminate the truths that resonate with others.

Creating art is not merely a solitary act; it is an act of connection. When one makes art in the spirit of giving, they open themselves to a profound dialogue with the world. This connection is not just about crafting something beautiful; it is about forging bonds, about reaching out with a hand extended in empathy and understanding. The artist becomes a conduit for shared experiences, a bridge between souls. In this way, the act of creation transforms the ordinary into the extraordinary, as the simple act of paying attention allows the mundane to blossom into something remarkable. It is the extra attention, the deliberate focus on life’s details, that reveals the layers of beauty hidden beneath the surface.

Yet, in the grand scheme of things, art can feel too big, too unwieldy for one person to grasp. It can seem overwhelming, as if the weight of it all might crush the spirit before it ever has a chance to take flight. But here lies the paradox: to create is to affirm, to say that what you are doing is making more of what you love. It is an affirmation of belief, a declaration that beauty exists and is worthy of exploration. If you are an artist, you are also a believer—this is a truth that cannot be overlooked. You believe that humanity is capable of recognizing beauty in all its forms, that love can pierce through the veil of indifference, and that hope is not merely an ideal, but a tangible force that can unite us in our collective journey.

In this belief, one finds not only purpose but also a sense of community. The artist, in their vulnerability, invites others into their world, creating a space where connection flourishes. To engage in the act of creation is to assert that we are not alone, that our stories are intertwined. It is here, in the shared experience of creation, that social mobility finds its roots, where dreams can blossom and take flight. The artist becomes a vessel of hope, a testament to the possibility of transformation and connection.

As I reflect on my own journey, I find myself yearning to see the world through a lens of meditation, to pay attention slowly and deliberately. Each brushstroke, each word penned, becomes an outward manifestation of this daily meditation on our uniquely human experience. I seek to capture the fleeting moments, the quiet beauty that often goes unnoticed, and to translate that into something meaningful. In this process, I am reminded that art is not merely a product; it is a reflection of our lives, a mirror held up to society that reveals both its flaws and its beauty. 

In the end, the artist’s task is not to create for the sake of recognition, but to create as an act of love, a celebration of the human spirit that resonates with others. It is in this shared act of belief, in the commitment to unveil the extraordinary within the ordinary, that we find our true purpose and, perhaps, our salvation.

Emma

In the dim light of her attic studio, Emma's world unfolded like the pages of a well-worn journal, each stroke of the brush a visceral entry in her life’s narrative. The scent of turpentine mingled with the faint aroma of pine drifting through the cracked window, a reminder of the outside world she often felt estranged from. This space, cluttered with canvases and stained palettes, was both her sanctuary and her battleground.

For an artist, there is no separation between personal life and art; they are irrevocably intertwined, feeding off each other in an endless loop. Emma lived this truth daily. Every emotion she felt—love, heartache, time’s relentless march, hate, revelation, hardship—spilled over into her work. Art was fast and slow, confusing and clear. Art was life, in all its brutal, beautiful chaos.

Emma’s reflection, caught in a paint-smudged mirror, looked back at her with a mix of familiarity and estrangement. Calling herself an artist felt like an act of rebellion, an assertion against a world that often failed to understand the depth of her existence. She created pieces that people with means would buy, yet her art was more than a commodity—it was her essence, distilled and laid bare for anyone willing to look beyond the surface.

Her perception of the world was a fractured kaleidoscope, shaped by her neurodivergent mind. Anxiety, depression, OCD—these were her constant companions, whispering uncertainties and doubts. The simplest things could trigger an avalanche of despair, a torrent of overwhelming emotion. Yet within this storm, art was her anchor. To create was to breathe, to live in the suspended moment, a meditation on the human condition—her own and that of others.

Every morning, Emma would wake with a sense of anticipation and dread, never knowing what the day would bring. Some days, inspiration flowed like a river, unimpeded and clear. Other days, the weight of her own mind felt like chains, dragging her into the depths of despair. Yet, she had learned to embrace this unpredictability. Creating art was living in the moment, accepting imperfection as a virtue and confusion as an opportunity.

She had stopped stressing about the outcome, focusing instead on consistency and showing up. Success, she realized, lay in the persistence of effort. Art had given her the permission to be herself in ways she never thought possible. It allowed her to be flawed, to be ugly, shortsighted, and confused without the compulsion to fix it. It was a journey towards self-acceptance, a painful and liberating path.

Her wounds, she knew, would open and close like the petals of a night-blooming flower. Healing was not a linear journey but a cyclical one, where scars would split and mend anew. Different experiences would heal and reopen these wounds. The purpose of her work was to understand this ebb and flow, to learn how to rise and remain open. It was about realizing that pain did not signify failure. Hating herself had never brought her success; it was hope that required a radical belief in her own worth.

Emma had come to understand that trusting her intuition was the most profound gift she could give herself. Expressing her fears, hopes, and dreams did not make her excessive; it made her strong. Growth was not in the answers but in the acceptance of their absence. Art had taught her that she was extraordinary, even if she had been blinded by insecurities for most of her life. She showed up, fought, and persevered. She made mistakes, but she remained beautiful.

She was choosing to mend her relationship with herself, to build rather than destroy. Women, she knew, were adept at self-sabotage, at annihilating their worth with insecurities and self-doubt. But there came a point when she had to choose differently. Life was not about safety; it was about living, and living required courage. The bravest thing she had ever done was to lean into her insecurities and transform them into strengths. She finally realized that, alongside other sources of joy, she was worth choosing.

Emma had to relinquish ownership of burdens that were never hers to bear. She was not responsible for the actions of others or the pain they inflicted. It was okay to extend herself grace and compassion. She was always doing better than she believed. Forgiving herself for past self-treatment was crucial. She could not judge her former self by the standards she now held. Hindsight should not be a weapon.

Pain’s persistence did not negate her healing efforts; it spoke to the depth of her wounds. Art had given her a sanctuary to sit with her emotions, to inhabit the discomfort, the joy, the sorrow, and the frustration. It was a space for presence, a vessel for transformation.

As she added the final touches to her painting, Emma felt a quiet reckoning within her. Her art was a mirror to her journey, a testament to her resilience. It whispered to her that she was not alone, that she could navigate life's intricate paths. And in that fleeting moment, she knew she was precisely where she was meant to be.