Artist Cards & Imperfection
A Love Affair with the Unknown
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In 2010 I spent a glorious month at the Banff Centre as part of their Literary Journalism writing residency. Upon arrival, each of the eight writers selected for the program was issued a photo ID —our free-access pass to meals, events and amenities on the campus. “Here you go,” a kindly administrator said as she handed it to me, “your Artist card.”
Sure enough, right there beside my name and photograph was the word “Artist”. I felt anointed. And fraudulent.
I am, it has taken me several published books to get comfortable saying, a writer; in the Banff Centre universe, that earns me the “Artist” honorific.
Still, the label caught in my throat.
Of course writing is an art form; I am a lifelong devotee of the literary arts. But I have also spent most of my life wanting to be more of a visual artist, envying people I think of as being worthy of the moniker—painters, sculptors, puppeteers, set designers. My drawing skills are too poor, my knowledge of colour theory and brush strokes too limited to ever feel I belong in that designation.
There is a feeling I get—have you ever had this or is it just me?—when I take a painting or drawing class and realize I am not terribly good at it. It’s like a cramp in my ribs, accompanied by a roil of disgust in my gut. My entire upper body gets kind of warm and I want desperately to bolt from the room. I look around at other participants in the class, see clearly how much more naturally these skills come to them, measure my bumbling efforts against their vastly superior output, and resolve to never again fool myself into signing up for lessons to become something I simply am not: an Artist.
This went on for years, in painting class after painting class. Maybe I haven’t found the right teacher, I’d tell myself. Maybe I just need to keep working at it. The occasional canvas would turn out slightly less terribly than all the others and I’d feel a feverish high, a jet fuel injection of hope that maybe one day I could achieve worthy results. So I’d keep going, and then my ribs would cramp up again and I would want to vomit, certain that if I did it onto the canvas it would look better than what I was trying to paint. Comparing my work with other (real) artists, I’d stew in a self-imposed pressure to not just make art but have it mean something. Or be impressive. Something to hang somewhere, surely.
For years I placed expectations not just around my creative output, but my identity. I could get out of my own way on the page, so why not at the easel? Not being able to paint well made me a disappointment to myself. I would never be an Artist.
Yes, I read the creativity books and listened to the mantras about being curious and not judging the work. Intellectually I bought into Steal Like An Artist author Austin Kleon’s idea of “I grieve all the art not made because of perfectionism.” I know that expectations get in the way of exploration. I know that art should be playful. And yet knowing isn’t enough. I was stuck, helpless in the thrall of an inner critic who wanted more than I could deliver.
Then two things happened.
The first is that I got sick with long Covid. I spent nearly two years feeling like hell, mostly horizontal and bereft, not at all myself. As tortured an experience as that was, it forced me into a new relationship with uncertainty. In order to live the shitty life I had during that time, I had to learn to accept not knowing when, how or whether it would ever get better. Forced to abandon any expectations of the future, any version of Dylan’s “someday things are gonna be different, when I paint my masterpiece”, something let go. I had to get okay with not being okay.
Now that I’m fully recovered, I’ve hung onto that as a hugely meaningful way to live. I call it my love affair with the unknown.
The second happened just recently, when a woman I know suggested a weekly get together with a couple of friends for some painting in her backyard studio. She is a creative enthusiast who makes miniature Joseph Cornell-style art pieces. I’d even call her an artist, though she doesn’t carry a card. For several weeks now we have gathered Tuesday afternoons with our brushes, paper, canvases and inks. No instruction, no pressure, no expectations. Just good company and good snacks. I am a child on a playdate, having fun with friends, joyfully experimenting. I return home with paint smears on my skin, just like real artists. I don’t usually look back at what I’ve made, I’m too busy basking in how good it feels to have tickled possibility by doing it at all. But when I do look, I see discovery.
I get it now: making art is a love affair with the unknown. In order to surrender to whatever creative force swirls around and through us, artists—all of us—need to trust in the glory of the making. No matter what it looks like on the page or the canvas when we’re done, the masterpiece is already there.
If you enjoyed this piece from Gill Deacon, she also has a terrific Substack and podcast about her Love Affair with the Unknown. The podcast features guests like Oliver Burkeman, Jann Arden, Lisa Raitt, and Mary Walsh.
Adam Gopnik had a thought-provoking piece in the Globe and Mail this past week about imperfection and creative pursuits (paywalled).
My friend and former podcast collaborator on the Choiceology show, Matt Bucher has written his second novel, The Summer Layoff, and I absolutely LOVE it. It is a truly unique reading experience that perfectly captures the world of work, careers, time, productivity, and, well… modern life. This diary of a recently laid-off knowledge worker will stick with me for a long time. —Steve
Check it out at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or Bookshop.org.
Thanks again, Gill! Next time, we’re going to tell you about our exciting new project coming soon here in the Creativity Guild. Stay tuned and thanks for reading.
Steve & Geoff
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