Compass & Quill

Week 1 in The Artist’s Way is all about feeling safe to practice your art. It’s called “Recovering a Sense of Safety.” Basically, it’s an exploration of all of the subtle ways we were told over the years that we couldn’t be artists. This includes negative messaging from others (parents, teachers, peers, society at large) and ourselves. Sometimes the message wasn’t intentional, and other times it was. Either way, your brain absorbs that information and anticipates the ways in which practicing art could make you unsafe. Eventually, you begin choosing other activities that involve less risk (real or imagined) and over time, your inner artist is locked away.

One concept that really rang true to me was that of the shadow artist, someone who lives art vicariously through others. These are people that once had an artistic dream, but were told that the dream wasn’t practical or achievable. They often end up moving into support positions for practicing artists: a muse, a doting spouse, a benefactor, or someone who uses a little creativity in their professional life, but doesn’t necessarily follow their wildest art dreams. Two examples given in the book are of talented writers who become lawyers and painters who become art therapists.

It’s easy to see myself as a shadow artist. I can definitely see the effects of fear on my own career choices over the years. I started writing short stories as a kid, pretty much as soon as I could hold a pencil, and for years I assumed that I’d be a fantasy author one day. But somewhere in my late teens or early 20s, I suddenly “knew” that wanting to write fiction was a total waste of time.

Similarly, the earliest I remember wanting to sing on stage was when I was six or seven years old. The memory that really sticks out to me is singing the harmony of a Dolly Parton song to my mom, and having her tell me that I didn’t sound good. I was confident at the time that I wasn’t singing out of tune, so I didn’t understand the negative reaction. Years later, I found out that she is sensitive to high notes, and absolutely loathes sopranos. (For the record, I’m a coloratura soprano, and can sing up to A above high C. My natural singing voice is torture to my mom.)

I didn’t give up on singing then, but that was the first of a series of small cuts that eventually caused me to lose faith in myself. Several poor auditions in middle school. A musician boyfriend who told me that the voice wasn’t a real instrument. But I managed to keep the faith for a good while. I got the guts to try out for an a cappella group in college, and went on to sing solos in front of large, appreciative crowds. I sang in multiple small bands after college, and though they were mostly unsuccessful endeavors, I can still remember a handful of nights where people stopped me after the show to say how much they liked my voice. I’ve been singing in the crowd at concerts and had people compliment me after the show. Bottom line, I don’t sound like shit. And now, after years of only singing in the shower, I’m training in classical voice. One day, maybe I’ll sing in front of people again. I hope that these writing exercises will get me there.

Which leads me to other forms of art, things made by hand like pottery, metalsmithing, and drawing. It’s a long story, but I didn’t take art classes as a kid. The first and last time I took an art class was in 7th grade. I still remember this project that we worked on where we had to paint a landscape on cotton board. I really enjoyed that project, and I remember the teacher pulling me aside and telling me that I should continue working at this, that I had promise. Unfortunately, the next time I took an actual art class was about 20 years later, when I signed up for beginner pottery on a whim. I still can’t draw, which means that I can’t paint the things that I want to. But just writing about this is making it very clear that the problem isn’t that I can’t do the thing. The problem is that it takes years of training – just like singing, just like writing – to get decent. Of course I can’t draw. I don’t have the mental toolbox yet.

I have continued somewhat with pottery, though. In fact, I start a new course on handbuilding next week. For some reason (maybe because I’m literally playing with mud), working with clay makes me feel safe. The sky is the limit, and nothing is wrong. I know that I personally like all kinds of weird pottery pieces, so I don’t feel compelled to make something delicate and beautiful. I’m hopeful that pottery will be like voice, a thing that I’m willing to go to battle for.

It’s hard to feel safe in this world. Being too honest can leave us feeling exposed. But we all have gifts that make it possible to expand our world and bring beauty and wonder into the lives of those around us. The least we can give ourselves is the room to play and explore those hidden parts of ourselves. I’m not willing to be a shadow any longer.