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.