Of course, two weeks before we leave for Boston, I learn about a good, inexpensive, regular uninstructed life drawing group not too far from my parents’ house (thanks Rob!). I went on Monday, when they did short poses (1-20 minutes), and again last night, when there was a single pose for the entire three-hour session. Monday was fine. I had a great time.
Last night was a different story. Maybe it’s because I was able to see several other artists’ work from where I was sitting (and they all looked good), maybe it was bound to happen anyway, but the session went like this in my head:
hopeful beginning
still hopeful
bleh
bleh some more
I suck
I suck a lot
I suck and I know nothing
I suck and I know nothing and everyone can tell
I suck and I know nothing and everyone can tell and they are pitying/scorning/dismissing me
I hate everything
I HATE EVERYTHING
EVERYTHING
EVERYTHING
well.
actually this isn’t so bad.
probably I still suck
but this isn’t so bad and I kind of like it.
Naturally, this being my internal dialogue and the session being three hours, that was the condensed version.
I’ve written about this before, but I have such a terrible inferiority complex about my art (since I have no formal training in it). I can fairly happily draw or paint for three hours on my own, but throw other people into the mix — particularly older and more experienced artists — and suddenly I’m a hideously awkward teenager at a party. I want to make friends but I don’t want to talk to anyone. I want people to talk to me but when they do I wish they would go away. I crave approval, but f— everyone and their opinions, I don’t need them! Everyone is amazing and I suck! I am amazing and everyone else sucks! Bottom line: OH GOD I AM DOING THIS ALL WRONG
On Monday everyone mostly sat in their places and did their work, but last night people circulated and looked at each other’s papers and canvases. One man who was there both days came over and looked at my sketchbook and then at my palette and said, “That’s a lot of colors to be working with.” A completely neutral statement, and in fact true. But since I was already an hour into richly marinating in my own insecurities, I immediately thought, “OMG I am not supposed to be using so many colors / he’s telling me my work is bad / he knows I’m the rankest of amateurs / he’s looking down on me / if he can see this everyone else can too.” Not a good foundation for a reasonable conversation. So what I said was, “Oh I know,” and then he moved on to the next person. Rational analysis suggests that my “oh I know” may have come out rather curtly, giving the perfectly plausible impression that I was in the creative zone and didn’t want to talk, but again like the awkward teenager, I then spent the next hour mentally re-mortifying myself with this exchange, over and over.
This happens quite often at these sessions, actually. If people look at my work and openly admire it, I fear they have no taste, or they’re just being kind. If they look at it and say nothing, I fear they think it’s bad. If they don’t look at it, I fear it’s not worth even looking at (as if people could somehow tell this without even looking at it…). As I paint, my left brain is unoccupied, and so it amuses itself replaying every interaction and casting it in the worst possible light. Then the more compassionate part of my left brain will say, “Hey there, hold up, it’s possible you’re interpreting this wrongly. You’re so uptight about all this, it’s possible everyone is just leaving you alone because you are sitting there radiating defensiveness.” Then the rest of me thinks, “That could be true… OR IT COULD BE NOT TRUE,” and I’m back where I started. Meanwhile painting is happening and no one has any idea what’s going on in my head. (Also in the meantime there is another voice rolling its eyes — pretend a voice can have eyes and roll them — and saying, “Good god, you’re neurotic. Can you just stop thinking about this? It’s doing you no good,” but of course no one listens to her.)
I realized last night, after I got home, that though it’s uncomfortable, it’s useful practice to spend these hours sitting with my freaked-out inner voices.* In a strangely social way, I get to know them: their motives, their fears, the way they play off each other. It’s like taking a long bus ride with someone I think I don’t like; as we’re forced to spend time together, I begin to see what we have in common, and empathy follows. Perhaps we could be allies, if not friends.
I often express gratitude that I never have to be a teenager ever again, but what are these wretched bouts of insecurity if not replays of my teenage self? Adolescence, after all, is merely a state of acute growth and transition, leading to something different (and, we hope, better). It is probably a good sign if I’m having teenage moments while doing something creative; it probably means I’m growing.
And here’s the painting I hated for probably two hours before I decided it was all right:
Initial sketches, separate from the final picture:
Process photos, taken every 20 minutes (sorry about the lighting; the studio is not ideal for photography):
This is about the point when I stopped hating it.
*This is not my first post referring to my noisy inner voices.
satsumabug.com | Lisa Hsia 
I love to read about your thought process, and to see the different stages of your artwork. I loved seeing all of these (would you call the top ones watercolor sketches?), but I especially like the blue and black one that is 3rd down. I think the finished painting is wonderful, too.
(Also, is it wrong that I was momentarily fixated on the comment that you’ll be back in Boston? I’m behind in my blog reading, so I’d missed this. How long will you be in the area?)
Thank you, Alejna! I do think of them as watercolor sketches, although I always wonder if other painters would think they are too draw-er-y. (This is something else my left brain likes to dwell on while I paint.) I like the blue and black one too. I’d like to spend more time with these techniques and see if I can get some sort of handle on which paints behave how with water. Right now it’s still largely a crapshoot.
No!! I was going to get in touch with you once we got to Boston (in fact, it’s on my calendar for the day after we arrive). We’ll be there for three months 😀 😀 😀
ahhhhh feeling like a teenager again…!!!
btw this line makes me laugh: “That could be true… OR IT COULD BE NOT TRUE” 😀
That line sums up the back-and-forth between my inner teenager and the older, wiser inner voices. ;b There’s pretty much no convincing comeback for “but it could be not true.”
I don’t know if I’ll ever make an ally of my freaked out inner voice. So far, the best I can do is tell it my personal version of how, most probably, the man who commented on all the colors you were managing was wondering why he found it so hard to do when
obviously that’s the way a ‘real’ artist should do it, and good lord, she
must think I’m a moron for saying that. Why did I say that?! Doesn’t
always help, though. I think that’s why I’m a slow writer.
Dearest Ré, Love and hugs to you, slow writer or not. 🙂 I doubt the man thinks I’m more of a ‘real’ artist than he is, but who knows? Anything is possible, and that’s what I try to remind myself when I immediately jump to negative conclusions in trying to interpret other people’s actions or remarks.
You know the silly thing is — and I was telling Erik this on the way home from that session — when I see the other artists’ work at these sessions, I rarely rank them in the way that I always expect them to rank me. Meaning: I don’t look at their work and think, “this person is clearly the best artist in the room, this person is clearly the worst,” etc. It’s more like I’m amazed by people’s different talents and approaches: this person does bold and joyful things with color, this person has fabulous composition, this person gets the likeness just perfect. And yet all I can imagine, when I see other people looking at my work, is that they’re thinking, “Psh… she knows nothing.”
Good grief, Lisa, I love your stuff. I love your final painting and also, particularly, sketch number 3 scrolling down the page. So much with such a limited pallet and then…. your colour burst. We have a good friend who is a professional artist and tutor and stares and stares at objects until colours you can’t imagine become visible to her – and then throws them in. Go for it… you have more skill than you give yourself credit for.
Alan, hello and thank you!! I often go crazy with the color at the end of a session. I think after three hours I’m just tired and want to do something different and energetic… usually a good idea. 😉
“You have more skill than you give yourself credit for” — it heartens me so much to read that. Thank you, thank you.
Oh dear Lisa, your painting of a woman is amazing. I love it. I know how you feel, my inner critic is sometimes very busy too but you do create fantastic stuff, you do have a beautiful gift, talent to share. Whole you is beautiful – your personality and paintings which are so delicate and strong at the same time (just like you). And I am very proud that I met such a great artist who inspired me in so many ways. So stay inspired and creative my dear friend, you have got so much to share with world. Sending much, much love to you.
Dear Aga, thank you so much! I send so much love to you as well. I have been rereading my morning pages from our travels — it made me smile to read the entries where I first received your email and was wondering what it would be like to meet you. I had no idea I was about to meet such a loving person and encouraging friend. Big big hugs to you (from the airport in San Jose, as we are about to leave for Boston!). And then an even bigger one. ❤
I laughed while I read this. And why? Because it sounded so dang familiar! My favorite is the third down from the top. It blows me away, as always, how you manage so much movement and grace in so few lines and details. I did like your completed one at the bottom though, and the colors are what brought it to life for me. I’m sure right now your inner critic is telling you not to believe the compliments. Don’t believe that inner critic. Believe those of us who have no reason to give you compliments we don’t mean. We mean them.
Hi Lisa! Oh good, glad I’m not the only one doing neurotic inner dialogues while creating. 😉 I mean, I know I’m not, but it is just a little embarrassing to type out the thing in its whole hand-wringing entirety. Your complimentary words fill me with gratitude; I do know you mean them. Thank you — not just for this comment but for all the creative camaraderie since we “met”!
You’re more than welcome! That’s a two-way street you know, so thank you, too.
Now that has me beaming. 🙂
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