Summary

The Fearful Artist reflects on the personal struggles of a creative individual battling with fear, self-doubt, and external pressures that hinder the creative process.

Abstract

In "The Fearful Artist," the author candidly shares the internal conflict and fears that have eroded their passion for creation. Despite a deep love for their craft, the author describes a paralyzing fear that arises when faced with the act of creating. This introspective piece delves into the author's experiences at a Starbucks, where the expectation to create clashes with the need for relaxation and self-recharge, leading to a cycle of self-criticism and anxiety. The author examines various potential sources of this creative block, including personal relationships, the overwhelming presence of successful artists on social media, unmet equipment needs, and the daunting array of choices in the digital age. Ultimately, the author recognizes the need to let go of self-imposed pressures and allow the creative process to flow naturally, acknowledging that art cannot be rushed or forced.

Opinions

The author believes that their fear of creating is exacerbated by high personal standards and the pressure to succeed.
The constant comparison with other artists who appear to be more successful contributes to feelings of inadequacy and creative paralysis.
Relationships can be a double-edged sword, providing comfort but also distracting from personal creative focus.
The digital age, while offering more opportunities, can also stifle creativity with its endless possibilities and choices.
The author acknowledges that their own critical voice has become a habitual meditation, overshadowing the joy of creation.
There is a recognition that the

The Fearful Artist

Honest musings from a creative

Reposted from a 2018 diary

Fear seems to be a big part of why I don’t create. Over the years, my own fears have eroded my desire to create and to push on. It is a strange thing, to be so in love with your craft, but to be terrified of it once you are faced with it.

One afternoon I was sitting in Starbucks. My time there was one continuous sigh. I go here to get away, to find time to relax, to allow my brain a release and a chance to recharge. And yet, I find myself in a panic each time I visited.

Thoughts such as Now is the time I must create. You don’t have much time. What do you want to do? No one will create your future but you blah blah blah. A phenomenal rainbow of thoughts, each color a different shade of fear and pressure.

I don’t know how it happened, but in my adult years, I have totally lost the ability to relax and to allow myself to drift through my work and what I do. My confidence was slowly stripped away by my own doing.

When you are sitting in a cafe, the last thing you want to be doing is thinking of this. Questioning yourself, who you are, your own competence and abilities. And yet without interruption, I have somehow made criticism my daily meditation.

I looked back at my accomplishments and felt nothing. All that I felt was what I hadn’t done, and what I should do from now. I looked at my goals from this past year, and all had yet to be accomplished.

Why is this? Is it because my crushing pressure and high standards of myself were taking their toll on me? Maybe I was messaging my boyfriend too much. Perhaps looking at too many images of artists who were doing better than me.

Was it because I still didn’t have the equipment that I wanted and needed? Or could it be that I didn’t actually believe in my own abilities and was just biding my time? Or maybe this age of digital wasn’t actually for me, and my world and creativity had been stunted by the endless possibilities. They said that more choice was worse than fewer choices.

I knew it was ridiculous. None of them made any sense when I thought it out. The pressure wasn’t real; I didn’t need to do anything I didn’t want to. I was free to create anything or to create nothing.

That’s the thing about art, it shouldn’t be rushed and it shouldn’t be forced, no more than you can make water run down a stream quicker. You can only remove the rocks.

As for my boyfriend. Yes, probably. I tend to lose my own personal focus when I’m in a relationship. I can’t help but think of the fate of two lives than just my own. In a way, it's my own creative project, thinking about what the future will be like and what we could and should do.

It was also a slight addiction. I find solace in having a partner. It's fun, and always wonderful to have someone that cares about you, it's just not healthy to be careless about it.

Images. The vast, endless array of impeccable artists with incredible lives. They all say it's possible too — to be like them, to do what they do. And of course, there is always that sliver of possibility that says if you follow the blueprint perfectly, you could do it as well.

But it's ridiculous to say that to someone who has an opposite life in a completely different situation. It’s not fair, and it’s not reasonable. I always felt like they should put their focus on telling people they shouldn’t aspire to be them. Different people need and want different things, instead of continually getting bombarded with propaganda that tells them what their lives should look like.

As for equipment. Yes, maybe. That one could actually be possible. But it was still implausible why all my art suffered, and not just the side that required equipment.

One thing, I thought to myself; I was hardly ever creating. It was rare that I created, and it was rare that I made mistakes. I didn’t allow myself to. Something about it was too painful, coming short was painful.

But maybe what if it didn’t have to be? What if I didn’t even think about it, and allowed my body to go on autopilot with the art, forcing the side of the critique out? So long, you have overstayed your welcome in the gallery. And just let me be me.

Perhaps I was afraid to do things wrong. To share too much, to give too much away. To reveal pain and failure was to be one. Maybe though, just maybe, it wasn’t.

Excerpts originally posted here.