10/24:We Must Not Worry

From the journal: Autumn 2024

I think the worst thing you can do is stop, stop completely, stop cold, stop without warning, and in that stopping, you lose your momentum, lose your push, lose the forward motion that has been your dance. Art is a river and when you stop, it is a dam, a block, a halt. Life pulls at you, life tugs at you, life throws you into the storm. Sometimes your tank is empty, the well run dry, no more fuel, no more fire. Life stresses, seasonal depression, job requirements, family struggle, a heart broken, these are the weights that anchor you down. 

But sometimes art requires that you stop. Yes, sometimes it requires that you do what is good for you, not what is good for your art practice. Sometimes you must breathe in and breathe out. Sometimes stopping is necessary, is vital. Sometimes it is the harsh truth. Brutal honesty with oneself. Yes, sometimes stopping is more important than the momentum. Sometimes stopping is the only way to regain the strength to leap forward, because creating art is cyclical, a wheel that turns, and you cannot be on all the time.

Something happens to every artist, yes, throughout their journey, their career, their life. Periods of time when style changes, when process shifts, when interest morphs into something new, something alive and breathing. You need that breath, that inhale, that exhale, that moment where you are not creating the work you once were. You need that space, that pause, that quiet where the noise of your past work fades, and you can step into the light of something waiting to be born.

And I think that’s where I am now, at this very moment, my tank has emptied, not kind of, really emptied, for the style I’ve been creating. My thoughts swirl like autumn leaves caught in a windstorm. My brain wants to escape the confines of non-objective abstraction, to run wild into landscapes, into portraits, into the essence of animals rendered in a less realistic, more lyrical, gestural way. 

Every artist must reevaluate their voice, must ask if their expression aligns with their current self. And I am there now, feeling the pull of non-objective abstraction slip away like water through fingers. I am drawn to painting life, the real, the tangible, through a lens that is my own. I want to capture how I feel, how I see, how I experience this world, and oh, how hard it will be to translate that into form. It feels like an emotional journey, raw and aching, and as I write, the tears rise unbidden, a testament to this process of growth.

Painting for my own development, for my own fulfillment, for my own expression—that process is not neat, it is not tidy. It is raw, it is messy, it is the chaos of change. There is a grieving for what was, a fear of letting go of the familiar. It is hard to step off the precipice, to leap into the unknown, to trust that there is still me in the shift, but I do not want to be the same me that my work reflected. I have changed, so my work shall change.

This is my artistic journey, not anyone else’s. There is comfort in that truth, but also loneliness, because the vision I carry may be unseen, unheard, unvalued by others. The aesthetic I pursue may be a solitary path, but steadfastness is required in the face of doubt. 

In these early stages, excitement dances like a flickering flame, but it may not look like much. It is easy to convince myself that this new path is pointless, that the comfort of the past beckons. But evolution is needed, growth is required, and I must follow what excites me, what ignites the fire within, not what is easy, not what is safe. I cannot let fear dictate my path, nor the voices of others. 

We must not worry about being careful in the pursuit of our voice. Messy, disorganized, uncertain—that is the nature of discovery. Who cares? Who the fuck cares? Embrace the chaos, embrace the change, embrace the journey. Art is not a straight line but a winding road, and along that road, we find ourselves anew, again and again.