As a writer, I’m my own worst critic. I don’t see every flaw in my work. I only see the flaws. The difference is slight, but one results in the willingness to revise and the other in creative paralysis.
I remember having similar experiences as a kid when I took piano lessons. Some days I would practice a single scale until I could play it perfectly. The imperfections motivated me to keep practicing. But on other days, the imperfections were too much to handle. I wished I could push the piano out of a ten story building, light all of the copies of music on fire, and yell, “To hell with it!”
So when Kurt Vonnegut’s letter to a class of high school students surfaced in my news feed this past week, I felt convicted:
“Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how well or badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what’s inside you, to make your soul grow.”
He reminds me that the practice of art is more like exploration and less like decoration–it is about the soul of the artist. My worse criticism of my own writing stems from this confusion. Instead of asking myself, “What does this blog, poem, or essay say about my soul?” I ask whether it compares well to the writing of my peers or my favorite authors.
The same principle applies to the way I consume art. Instead of worrying whether I like the right movies or books, I could inquire about how my response to particular stories reveals some new aspect of my soul.
In an interview from 1968, Ray Bradbury describes human beings as “tension collecting animals.” We sometimes suppress violence, grief, and joy because those impulses are not always appropriate to the situation we find ourselves in. These tensions, however, accumulate over time and need to be exercised.
We usually don’t know what tensions we’ve accumulated. Sometimes we just feel feelings without a clear understanding of where they’ve come from or why we’re feeling them. So, as Bradbury says, the artist will come along and help us discover what they are and allow us to exercise them. It’s a form of catharsis—an often neglected avenue for self-knowledge.
Whether creating or consuming art, we should learn to posture ourselves for inquiry. We don’t always know what tensions we need to exercise on a particular day, so we need to go exploring. Because of my own propensity to care more about art as decoration instead of exploration, I’ve set up some guidelines to follow:
1. Follow Vonnegut’s advice: “…starting right now, do art and do it for the rest of your lives…Dance home after school, and sing in the shower and on and on. Make a face in your mashed potatoes. Pretend you’re Count Dracula.” If Vonnegut’s advice were a rule, I think it would read, “Create first, edit later (but only if you want to).” I regularly stifle my own creativity by editing the first draft of a poem as I’m writing it. From here on out, I plan to write the poem and only edit once I’ve written everything I want to write.
2. Don’t overwhelm yourself with art. Instead, allow yourself the space to get to know one painting, sculpture, poem, or song. Inquire about your experience by asking “what tensions am I feeling? What tensions is the artist representing?”
3. Pay attention to your preferences and start there. If you’re wondering what counts as good art, then you’re thinking about this backwards. If you do not find Van Gogh intellectually or emotionally engaging, then don’t try to force yourself to like him just because everyone else does. Exploring art isn’t a competition, and it doesn’t require a refined taste. Like the things you like and ask yourself “why do I like this?” Only when you start reflecting on your own experience will you eventually begin to see what makes an artist like Van Gogh great.
4. Be aware of how much art you are consuming and how much you are creating. You’ll always consume more art than you create. It takes several years to create a movie but only an hour and half to watch it. If, however, you find that you haven’t created anything in a long time (paintings, poems, music, mashed potatoes faces etc.), then consider making time for your own art. Creating art often has the effect of not only revealing something new about your soul to yourself but of helping you to better appreciate good art when you see it.
5. Finally, follow Vonnegut’s last instruction: don’t show your art to anyone because “you will find that you have already been gloriously rewarded…You have experienced becoming, learned a lot more about what’s inside you, and you have made your soul grow.” For a host of obviously bad reasons, this is a hard rule to follow. I like it when people like the things I create, and without fail, this desire eclipses the real rewards of making art. Art as self-expression is the act of exploration. Who knows what knew thing I’ll discover about myself or about the world through the crappy poem I wrote today? My job is only to be interested. The rest is not my business.