On Making Art
I’m still attempting to wean myself off twitter, something that to be fair is getting a lot easier these days now that twitter is pretty much irredeemably broken and terrible. But there’s a lot there, you know? A lot of my online life over the last I-dread-to-think-how-many-years. So many passing thoughts, and dumb jokes, and memories, and interactions. Actual friendships! All somewhat vanished through the passage of time, but now doubly vanishing under the shitty, obnoxious, nazi-filled waves.
So I thought, there might be a few things there worth salvaging, a few memories worth trying to bring with me onto the substack life raft.
And this was the first thing that came to mind. This was a thread I wrote a couple of years ago about Making Art which seemed to resonate with people. To the point that I haven’t actually had to dare setting foot back on Cursed Broken Bird Site to find it, because some helpful person collated it on Tumblr, where it went mildly viral for a couple of days. I think? Thanks, whoever that was! (I don’t really understand Tumblr).
Anyway:
And here’s a non-tweety version:
I was working recently with a bunch of kids who kept tearing up their own drawings in frustration, so I did something I’ve not done before.
I talked honestly to a classroom full of children about how much I hate my own drawing.
Okay, not the full extent. These kids ain’t ready to hear that. But that I do.
They were kind of appalled, and horrified and fascinated, but anyway, they stopped tearing up their drawings.
As I attempted to explain it — and many of you reading this will know already — when you make a drawing, there are two versions of it.
There’s the version that exists in your head, and then there’s the version that ends up on paper.
And because you can see both versions, you can’t help but compare them, and feel frustrated by the difference.
But here’s the thing, and I think it’s easy to forget this: no-one else can see that first version.
They can’t judge against it. They can only see, and judge, the version that exists on paper.
And you know what, this sounds crazy, but they might actually like it for what it is. They might think it’s cool that you made it.
I mean, holy god, if you guys could see the version of Mega Robo Bros that exists in my head.
Your eyeballs would melt and your heart be burned away by sheer divine fire of amazingness.
But the differences between that version and what’s on the page are only visible to me, and shouldn’t — can’t — matter to anyone else.
If a drawing goes a bit wrong, ah well. Look at it, learn, try and make the next one better.
Or, possibly even better: abandon false objective notions of quality altogether and just enjoy the process, the activity, of making a thing.
Not quite how I phrased it to the Year 5s, but hopefully you get the idea.
IN SUMMARY: be kinder to your drawings, and yourselves. I know, it’s hard. But try.
…okay thanks bye.
Come find us on Notes. It's very chill, like a lovely writing group meet-up at someone's house.
This was really helpful to read - I'm quite desperate to make my own comic but have never felt like my illustrations are good enough. Seeing the unexpectedly positive responses to some of my Inktober attempts, combined with your post here, I'm starting to think that maybe I *am* ready, and I'm just sabotaging myself...
Every artists dilemna. "You cannot fill in the vision", Annie Dillard says, "You cannot even bring the vision to light." We're fouled by our own efforts. The thing we thought we were making turns out not to be what that comes through. But, some times that the magic, that's the trick of it. That the place were it all fell down, where it collapsed, where it came apart, turns out to be the best part. The part that makes more alive. That makes it interesting. That gives it heart.