What You Hate Is Your Gift: 5/24
From the journal: May 2024
People hate their own art because it looks like they made it, and in that realization, there lies a peculiar kind of despair. It’s a familiar wretchedness, one that settles in the bones and wraps tight around the heart. The artist, standing before their creation, feels the weight of their own hand, the unmistakable imprint of their own thoughts, their own struggles, their own essence. They recoil in horror, as if confronted with a reflection that reveals too much, a shadow that looms larger than life.
There’s a belief, a desperate hope, that if they get better, if they sharpen their skills like a knife, their work will somehow transform. It will stop looking like it was made by them, made by their flawed, imperfect self. They dream of a better artist who would emerge, a savior of sorts, who could transcend the limitations of their own humanity. A better person made it, they think, someone who could separate the art from the artist, someone who could create without the burden of self.
But here’s the cold truth: there’s no level of skill beyond which you stop being you. No matter how much you refine your technique, no matter how many accolades you receive, the essence of who you are bleeds into every piece you create. The grit of your experience, the rawness of your emotion, the very fabric of your being is woven into the art. It is a paradox, a cruel twist of fate, that the very thing you wish to escape becomes the heart of your expression.
You hate the most valuable thing about your art, the very thing that makes it alive, that gives it breath, that connects it to the world. You detest the authenticity that seeps through the cracks, the vulnerability that lays bare your soul. In your pursuit of perfection, you overlook the beauty of imperfection, the grace found in the struggle, the truth that can only be unearthed by embracing your own humanity. It’s a tragic irony, really, this self-loathing that festers in the minds of artists. They are often their own worst critics, wielding their judgment like a blade, slicing away at the very heart of their creation. In their quest for some unattainable ideal, they forget that the art is not merely a product; it is a manifestation of their journey, their thoughts, their pain, and their joy. It is a testament to their existence, a record of their struggle to make sense of a chaotic world.
You see, we have a way of grappling with the grotesque, with the absurdity of life. We understand that there is beauty in the brokenness, in the struggle, in the raw and unpolished. The world is not a neat place, and neither is the artist’s heart. The messiness of creation is what makes it sacred, what makes it real. It is the act of wrestling with one’s demons, of laying bare one’s soul, that breathes life into the work. So, when you stand before your art, remember this: the imperfections, the flaws, the unmistakable signature of your own hand are not signs of failure. They are the very essence of what makes your work valuable. They are the threads that connect you to others, the language of your experience that speaks to the hearts of those who encounter it. In the end, it is not the polished surface that resonates; it is the truth that lies beneath.
Embrace the discomfort, embrace the vulnerability, for therein lies the power of your art. Let it reflect who you are, in all your messy, flawed glory. The world needs your voice, your vision, your truth. And if you can find the courage to love what you create, to accept the inherent value of your own experience, you may just discover that the very thing you hate is the most precious gift you have to offer.
