The Journey of a Life: Art

Amy of Winter Woods Studio

I watched Amy of Winter Woods Studio's video (above), where she describes her current "art crisis." A few things she said rippled my brain matter. Paraphrasing:

1. She focused on realistic art because of the influence of others

2. She didn't find joy or meaning in the realistic pieces she finished

3. She feels as though she has lost her identity since she has realized these two things

4. She doesn't know where to go from here and is going to try everything

My forte in art is photorealism, specifically with graphite, perhaps with a dash of charcoal for spice. This isn't to say I can't or don't do other types of art, just that this has been what I've spent most of my time doing. 

For as long as I can remember, I have tried to draw things the way I see them. I do this nearly always while looking at photographs, which are unchanging images. Photographs allow me to compare my work directly with them, a benchmark for accuracy. 

Photorealism is a challenge. It can also be very time-consuming, depending on the scale of the drawing. However, I do not believe I have ever been unhappy with the style. Nor have I felt that my work didn't speak to me or have a deeper meaning. I didn't look for meaning. I just did what I enjoyed for enjoyment's sake.

I have never looked at art and asked, "What am I trying to say? What does this mean?" For myself, it has solely been a technical ability to draw realistically. Sure, there are savants with uncanny abilities, but for the rest of us, the sheer amount of time we have spent doing something makes us "good" at it.

I have attended art galleries with creatives and non-creatives alike. Knowing I draw, I get asked questions about art when we look at it, as though I can see something they cannot. I see the colors, the light, the shadows, the details. These are things everyone sees. My favorite pieces are hyperrealistic or of nature and animals.

I never have anything profound to say. I often disappoint people when they ask what I think of a piece. My response is usually vague: "I like this spot here," circling my finger around a remarkably detailed portion, or "I love the colors." 

I say all this to say something completely contradictory: I just like all art. I enjoy looking at any art. One of my favorite artists is the ever-popular Van Gogh. It amazes me how he can produce an image you can recognize with just blobs of thick paint splotches. I receive the same pleasure from looking at the art of your average Jane or Joe, too. It doesn't have to be "good" compared to some benchmark. It's good purely because it is art, and they did it themselves. I want people to have fun and enjoy creating! Art doesn't have to hold up to a standard. As long as you have a good time, that's all that matters.

I am a recovering perfectionist. When I was younger, I was pretty critical of my drawings. I can still see where I wasn't exactly accurate. However, I have come to accept that "nature isn't perfect" as a deep knowledge. I have truly embraced "art should be fun," whether I have the muscle memory for the art I'm doing or not.

Another thing I have learned to accept about myself is that I go through phases. This year is the first time I have drawn anything more than a doodle in perhaps fifteen years. Since my sister died, it's also the first time I've felt creative.

Losing her was like losing my identity—my purpose. I know that feeling Amy mentioned—not knowing who I am or my place in the world anymore. It's as though you were a finished clay sculpture of a person, and then you were mashed into an unidentifiable lump of clay. Now you're waiting, not knowing what you'll be, if anything, ever again.

It is an intensely uncomfortable feeling. If someone asked me to describe myself during the first two years after my sibling died, I wouldn't have known how to respond. Do I still love to read? I haven't done that except to try and find ways to cope. Do I still love to knit? I haven't touched it. Am I still a gamer? I haven't turned on a console. I understood Amy from Winter Woods Studio when she tried to express how self-reflection has caused her to reassess her art and feel like she has lost her way.

Amy said she plans to try all types of art again, especially art forms that make her uncomfortable because they differ from what she has learned to do. This is an excellent idea, whether you are going through a change in your life or feeling stuck in a rut, even if you're already happy.

Cute ceramic monsters glazed by Sarah of craftraven.

Glass sculpted turtle by Sarah of craftraven.

Above left: ceramic figurines I glazed after a few months of practice. Above right: my first attempt at glass sculpting.

Trying new things, having new experiences, and even driving a different way to work each day enrich our lives. They slow down our sense of time because they overturn the predictability of our lives, which can also make us uncomfortable. Our brains are prediction machines; we have evolved to prefer to know the outcome before we begin.

However, art is one of the safest spaces to explore new thoughts, ideas, and experiences. Whether you perfect your technique, learn new skills, or go off the rails in your own direction, life rarely provides us the freedom we can find through creativity. Restricting that freedom because we feel we aren't good enough would be a shame.