Reflections on a Painting That I'd Rather Like to Burn

A part of me must love fucking it all up.

And I imagine that part of me is a glittery little imp, crouching in the corner of my brain, peeking through my tired eyes, almost electric with delight as I sit down to my art table with only half an idea of what I hope to accomplish while muttering to myself: Okay. How do I want to do this?

And if you have a creative practice, I'm willing to be that you've got your own version of that little imp, too. You might be feeling frustrated that a project is going all wrong, but that chaotic shard of your creativity is holding its glittering hands over its mouth to stifle the giggles - utterly delirious with the possibilities that arise from…

How can I fix this?

What would I prefer?

Why isn't this looking or feeling right?

What if…?

How else could we do what we do?

Artists of all kinds endure failing over, and over, and over again. There's a touch of the mad scientist in us. Something that sees the smoke, not as a sign of destruction, or a foretelling of the cold, but a signal that there's still something happening. A spark might catch. Proof of potential for warmth.

So I offer this love letter to the glitter-imp, its eyes rolling as I sneer at a new painting that looks like something I did three years ago because it knows that I'll have learned more from this waste of paper and paint than I could ever have learned by making something perfect.

I raise a glass to this part of me. This part of you. It's play and curiosity stitched together with resilience. It's the sharp metaphorical elbow in my ribs when I get down about a project, reminding me that the most beautiful things can be born from ashes and dust.

Here's to the parts of us that love the fall, the stumble, the faltering.

Long may they remind us that creation is messy-hard-joyful and that what might look like the smoke of a snuffed flame is really a promise that light is still close at hand.