Why I make bad art

Anything worth doing is worth doing badly and art is definitely worth doing

Most of us have seen those singing shows where people are sadly deluded about their vocal talents (American Idol anyone?). They thoroughly embarrass themselves on national television doing something they have no aptitude for and sometimes become belligerent that their supposed “gift” isn’t recognized. This phenomenon exists in every creative avenue from Instapoets, to comedians, and actors–though usually (thank God) doesn’t play out on national television. 

Here’s the deal: there are lots of people who shouldn’t be on American Idol. But singing can’t be just for the vocally gifted because some of us MUST sing-scream Taylor Swift while driving. In the same way, though my painting does not belong in a museum, it still needs to be made because I need to make it. 

One of my greatest fears is that what I perceive as my gifts and abilities are delusions. Sometimes this fear prevents me from sharing work that I’ve already created, but most of the time it goes straight to the source. It prevents me from creating period. To quote my roommate's favorite movie, Dune: “Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.” Fear of making bad art definitely kills my ability to create at all.

As soon as the value of art is measured by the appreciation of others, I lose my impetus to create. Other people can’t be relied upon to enjoy my poetry, paintings, or other artistic oddities, probably because it isn’t always good. 

As long as my goal is to develop an appealing product, the creative process becomes focused on producing a result not the valuable process of creation. The pressure to be appealing and marketable already rules so much of my time that artistic pursuits provide a welcome haven away from the commercialization of the self. But it’s difficult to escape the pressure to be great even in leisure.

I blame at least in part the protestant work ethic which places value on hard work before enjoyment, contemplation, and even sometimes relationship. It’s difficult when hard work is our ultimate value to slow down and enjoy a process for its own sake. 

Now, I’m not saying making art isn’t work, because it totally is. I personally work hard to write poetry that others might enjoy. I spend time studying other poets, practicing different formal exercises, and staring silently at a blank page during designated writing times. All of this is well and good but when striving after greater and greater ability, we can accidentally rob ourselves of the joy of creating.

There are so few things as gracious to failure as art. The experience of bombing an exam cannot provide the same value as hours spent pouring over an unsuccessful painting. With art, part of the value to the artist is the process of creating. Sure, we all prefer when our creations are beautiful but the process itself has value too.

I would know since I enjoy painting despite my results being unremarkable at best. When I paint, it sometimes turns out. I’ve made a few portraits of friends, and given away countless watercolored cards, but I have no illusions about making it in the art world. In this way, I know my place and it’s not in a museum. 

When I was younger I felt that if I enjoyed painting I needed to improve at it, by making color wheels and attending art classes. I thought that if I wanted to continue my hobby into adulthood then it needed to become my job or at least something I excelled at. All was false and temporarily soured me on painting. I hated going to art class because it stripped away why I gravitated toward painting in the first place. What I wanted most from painting wasn’t to produce an excellent piece of art but to spend some time quietly reflecting, pay close attention to light and color, and escape my hectic mind. Art class didn’t help me achieve these goals, it actually got in the way. Sure, I definitely improved at painting technically, but I also refused to paint for a few years after the experience.

I wish I’d known sooner that sometimes it’s okay to enjoy an activity and be really bad at it. Sure, my paintings aren’t worth anything, but the creation process has gotten me through some of the toughest times I’ve faced. 

If you think art only helps hippy, dippy, trippy English major types, you’re wrong. According to some research by occupational therapists, creating art, even bad art, can reduce stress, improve brain connections, and help us to process emotions. It would be a shame to miss out on these benefits because you’re not skilled enough with a paintbrush, guitar, or pen to feel confident. So, go forth and create, even poorly. You might not make a masterpiece but the time you spend creatively may create something good in you instead.