“Self-doubt lives in all of us. And while we may wish it gone, it is there to serve us.
Flaws are human, and the attraction of art is the humanity held in it. If we were machinelike, the art wouldn’t resonate. It would be soulless. With life comes pain, insecurity, and fear.”
-Rick Rubin
Under my worktable, there’s a bin and a chaotic, almost-toppling pile of paper. It’s where I put the art I make that just doesn’t “feel quite right” to me. It’s got nothing to do with perfectionism and everything to do with the numbness of the thing.
Anything that ends up balled up in my hands is bound for the bin. Some things I make annoy me instantly. They feel eons away from what I had in mind. They feel offensive somehow and that leads to an overpowering need to erase them. I do that through clenched fists. This way I can release them from my mind. If that sounds strange and melodramatic, it’s because it is. An embarrassing truth. But who said the truth has to be easy to admit to? It is what I need to do to move on. If I don’t, the failed work haunts me. Really haunts me.
My “acceptable” work is filed into a handful of slim folders, and sometimes I have to take a moment to brace myself before looking through them. Is that weird? It is weird. It feels a little like a personal kind of confrontation. I can’t explain it.
I have these thoughts about making art…I think that once I make something, once I successfully pull it out of my mind and put it into the real world, it needs it own space, away from me. I made it, and it exists but it’s no longer part of me. So in my mind, I let it go. It doesn’t haunt me.
One evening my friend dropped by with a bottle of wine and some slices of beef he’d roasted at home. I think he had some wasabi, too. I have a soft memory of him grinding the leafy end of the rhizome in my kitchen. After our meal, he asked to see my work—hoping to find something he could use for his wife’s hair salon’s business cards. I agreed, anxiously. I handed him my files, artwork in clear plastic slips. He picked out one of my typewriter sketches, and I eased into a sense of relief. He then reached under the table and took something from my “just doesn’t feel quite right” pile, asking if he could use that too. I was two glasses of red wine tipsy, so before I could refuse, I heard myself giving my consent.
He looked content. And me? I was starting to feel haunted.
Cue the self-doubt, all bells and hammers, smashing holes into my confidence. My rubbish is better than the stuff I think is “good”? Should I laugh? Cry? Bin the lot? Get over myself and make more art? What do I care so much? I remember sitting at my desk, staring daggers at the pile desk until I finally kicked it, sending papers scattering. A petulant outburst followed by the humbling task of sitting under the table, picking up my pointless mess. Pathetic? Maybe. Art-making drags you to all the vulnerable places. (I probably shouldn't be this honest).
Still half under my desk, I reached for my craft knife and inexplicably started cutting my discarded paintings into neat rectangles—20mm by 25mm, pieces of colour. I didn’t question my compulsion to start piecing them together with masking tape. I delved deep into my patchwork of jilted fragments — I worked on it late into the night after the kids went to bed.
As enthusiastic as I was about getting back under my desk the next day, I got that “hollow” feeling when what I saw felt predictable and silly. Winded, I set to work taking it apart… again. My 5-year-old must’ve sensed my vibe, because he came and sat beside me on the floor. His little fingers gently releasing the paper tiles from the frenzy of masking tape. One by one, he stacked them into neat piles by my knees. His presence was calming, grounding... inspiring. Kids of artists tolerate all kinds of strange stuff from their parents, I’ve mentioned this before here. He smiled at me before leaving and I felt comforted.
I didn’t second guess my urge to begin gluing the paper tiles onto a wood panel. I just went along with it—free-styling. I don’t know why I picked such a large panel. I have always worked small and controlled. Big is something I’d never done—I’d never dared to, even on my most confident days. But there I was, cross-legged on the floor, trying not to overthink, over-express myself. Trying to lean into some randomness. If you don’t know, randomness, or the feel of it, is so hard to achieve. So elusive. Noise offered a solution to the lulling that coaxed familiarity. Noise was a gateway to an altered state of mind. I listened to shouty podcasts about things I don’t even care about. Bizarre and screeching experimental recordings. Hyperactive soundtracks. Kid’s TV soundtracks. Strange ghost stories narrated by dramatic narrators in languages I don’t understand. Anything to keep my mind on that particular edge.
It didn’t take long for the relentless distraction to weigh heavy on me. I couldn’t focus. Randomness came and went into my work but the stain that came with a fragile attention span was sickening. Life felt fragmented, out of context. The noise was too much, too much. I felt irritated, angry and too wired. Constantly wired. I have felt this way before. I know the trap on this bending unmarked path. This was not a place I wanted to keep my mind in for too long.
I have made it my business to tell people that all this compulsive distraction that we live with and within is not good for our souls and in all that time, I have never FELT it as strongly as I did right in the moments I spent on this work. There were moments when I regretted starting, regretted the large panel, regretted the idea of bringing noise, but the urge to complete it was louder. The mark this work made on me begged me to finish it. Bit by bit, in short bursts, I fed paper and distraction onto the panel till there was no more space for either.
Calmness hummed back, like an old friend with a soothing voice. I may have cried when I finished it (I probably shouldn't be this honest). My big collage, made from cut-up art that “just doesn’t feel right” to me, mixed with a whole heap of noise and self-doubt. I call it Constant Distraction of a Restless Mind.
Under my worktable, there’s a bin and a small pile of paper. It’s where I dump the art that just doesn’t “feel quite right” to me.
Thanks for sharing. Fascinating experience and a nice read over my afternoon break.
I try not to delete work not up to scratch, it rests in ever larger folders. Same with my old note books on shelves. I don’t want to bin them. I also can never bring myself to revisit them.
There’s always a hope that revisiting them with distance will make them something they couldn’t be the first time.
Those moments, as difficult as they may be, hold honesty that add so much to the depth of your narrative. Genuine and sincere. Love the outcome, Yasumi :)