I Made This For You,
Do You
Like It?
Uneasy Thoughts on Creativity
Many of us lacking the constitution for freelancing know that life as a Corporate Creative can mean existing as a suffocated oxymoron. At least it’s been that way for me. I’ve tried to channel my internal springs of inspiration into personal projects under waning evening light and weekend hours. However, I’ve noticed that — especially when it comes to writing — my attempts to utilize the skills I wield so easily in the service of others to serve myself are mostly fruitless. Every now and then, an emotional emergency can move me. Apparently, in order to find myself in that steady rhythm of tap tap tapping, I must bare my soul. It’s an exhaustingly earnest personal brand that I simply cannot shake.
woven photographs
I want to change. I want to be lighthearted and topical and wax poetic about all things big and small that inspire me. I’d like to tell you about my favorite hidden gems in Mexico City, divulge which gorpy footwear I’ve been hunting for and hoarding, or even provide sardonic cultural commentary. But I can’t seem to do it. The drafts have gathered cobwebs. Nothing seems to hold enough gravity to form fully. So I thought, as an exercise in many ways, I’d write about the problem itself.
Gifted Kids, Rise Up
Frankly, my entire relationship to my creativity is on the mend. (Oh no, I’m already in too deep.) Like most of us hovering somewhere around 30, I’ve been working to correct the norms I absorbed throughout my childhood that just don’t suit me anymore. If they ever did. Growing up, I was just another high performing ADHD girly. I dabbled in many forms of music and visual arts, eventually forging my identity as an alto, writer, and top notch people pleaser. As the years went on, my creative outlets became more and more competitive. And by the time I finished high school, it felt like everything — my singing, my writing, my relationships, the way I carried myself, everything — was being analyzed, judged, and ranked. Not only by stereotypically horrendous frenemies, or the draining college admissions process, but also in the safe and fertile places. By the very instructors and collaborators I was working with to find myself. And despite my best efforts to be perfect, it felt like I was never enough of anything for anyone, and usually too much of something for everyone else.
As I grew to realize that I didn’t owe people access to those vulnerable parts of me, I wanted to punish those who acted entitled to them, to push back against the taught desire to perform. But by turning away from those who made me feel judged, I also turned away from creating anything that could be judged. I thought, What’s the point if others can’t see it? Can’t feel something because of it? Can’t like me because of it? I felt so misunderstood yet gave no one the opportunity to understand. Eventually, I refused to participate entirely. I skipped choir and stopped singing altogether; I only wrote when it was required of me. My flow of outward expression was completely cut off at a time in my life when I probably needed it most. As a result, I sunk deeper into a place of insecurity, defensiveness, and fear.
paper collage
And that was before social media. In this era of life-changing virality and lucrative engagement metrics, it’s even easier to slip into the practice of creating for the approval of other people — not only teachers, partners, and a Mother who loves to watch me shine; now there are friends from every chapter of my life, ex-lovers, old bullies, and a sea of internet strangers who might just love me if only they knew me. But thankfully, it’s finally sinking in: having an audience isn’t what makes creativity a worthwhile endeavor. It’s how I feel when I’m in it, and how it
feels in me. I don’t know what clicked; maybe the algo humbled me, maybe I got sick of my own shit. Either way, now I’m in it for the joy, the catharsis, the epiphanies. For the sake of the process.
It’s not cut and dry, of course. The late, great Andrey Tarkovsky described my own feeling back to me in a way that has been lodged in my mind since I first read it in college; it’s most beautiful in totality so I don’t dare paraphrase him:
Art is a meta-language, with the help of which people try to Communicate with one another; to impart information about themselves and assimilate the experience of others. Again, this has not to do with practical advantage but with realizing the idea of love, the meaning of which is in sacrifice: the very antithesis of pragmatism. I simply cannot believe that an artist can ever work only for the sake of ‘self-expression’. Self-expression is meaningless unless it meets with a response. For the sake of creating a spiritual bond with others it can only be an agonizing process, one that involves no practical gain: ultimately it is an act of sacrifice. But surely it cannot be worth the effort merely for the sake of hearing one's own echo?
I completely agree. My writing naturally veers towards the incredibly personal. Breaking enormous, ineffable feelings into words is a fragile demolition, vulnerable in a way that requires an ungodly energy. I’m not always up for it, especially when I write with sharing in mind. Yet, hearing from just one person who relates to the gaping wounds I’ve cracked open in public makes it worth the effort. It’s entirely more fulfilling than any of the generous bumps of dopamine social media offers so effortlessly elsewhere. It’s understanding, it’s love in common clothes. So from now on, I’m aiming for quality connection over any quantity of engagement. A conversation started, one person who feels more connected to the world because of something I made. That’s enough for me, I’ve been heard.
Is Perfectionism A Mental Illness? Because I am SICK!
Unfortunately, while I can change my viewpoint, there’s one hurdle that’s been hardwired into me in a way that is more difficult to untangle. Jokes aside, I know perfectionism is not a mental illness. But ADHD, my lifelong friend and psychiatric disorder, has ebbed and flowed throughout my life since before I had a name for it. Talk about a triple threat — aside from the requisite issues with attention span, my ADHD manifests as being painfully forgetful and highly anxious. Mostly about Achievement. Consequently, I’m an absolute nightmare of a perfectionist. But these are all traits that are celebrated, accepted, or at least easily solved for in American culture. So I’ve coped, until now. Now, I see how much my Perfectionism has taken from me.
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When I talk about Perfectionism, I don’t mean simply having high standards or being detail oriented.
bleach on expired polaroid
Maladaptive perfectionism is neurotic, obsessive, and self-defeating. Dr. Jessica Pryor, a researcher and educator studying perfectionism at Northwestern University, says that “with maladaptive perfectionism, the goals aren’t just high; they’re impossible to achieve. […] For some,that means they may double or triple their efforts toward the goal. But then others may go to the opposite extreme and avoid the experience or task altogether”. That second, shittier option was me.
For far too long, my inner critic was an abuser equipped with cutting words and a clear map to all my softest places. So long as there were rules to follow and parameters to stay within, I’d be fine; but my standards for my formless, shapeless, creative self became cruel. In my own space, or online, even during karaoke, I managed to critique myself into silence. Everything I made had to be the most brilliant thing I had ever made, otherwise what was the point? Only when I could convince myself of infallibility (or I was very drunk at said karaoke) did I feel sure enough to brave the impending judgment I swore was waiting on the tips of all tongues. At times it felt as though Nature and Nurture were colluding to keep me small and quiet.
I’ve not wanted much more in life than to bring a feeling or idea to fruition, out from the depths of self and into the world. To communicate, to understand myself and everything around me, to be with you all in as many ways as possible. But as quickly as anything came out of me, so too did that voice. Nothing was quite good enough for that voice. The jeers of inadequacy were painful, confusing. I struggled to understand how I could be so supportive of other artists and yet so unkind to myself. How could I not be good enough for me? The daily frustration of perfectionism was (and still can be) palpable. It’s a tension that can fill my body with hot rage – towards myself and anyone forcing imperfection on me. And it certainly did not only burn me in the realms of creativity.
The glorification of perfectionism makes too much sense to me, that’s part of the problem. In America especially, Perfection is the goal. It sells. It makes us, our products, and our companies indispensable. The Winners. And sitting as near to it as we possibly can makes us feel superior. It mimics control, worthiness, importance. Even love. Perfectionism is a shield, it’s our best attempt at being safe in a world that terrifies so many of us. But it’s also a cunning way to hide from yourself and everyone who may actually want to know you. In reality, the pursuit of the perfect self is one of the most dangerous byproducts of this modern hellscape. You can die trying, but you’ll never reach it. And you may just hate yourself the whole way there.
purple ice plant on cyanotype paper
The Art of Playing Nice
Thankfully, over the years, that hateful voice has been replaced with a kinder, funnier self who keeps reminding me of the freeing reality that no one truly cares what I do or say, creatively speaking. And while my tender little heart is still unsure about the exposure, my emotional world is slowly catching up to my logic. I suppose I reached my thirties just in time. With every year, my skin becomes thicker, more comfortable. I occupy my own space with a reassuring wholeness I haven’t felt before. Everyday, I care less and less about what you — yes you, reading this right now! — think of me or anything I put out into the world. Self-inflicted rejection and limitation, I now know, are far more painful than any critique or flaw could be. I’m outgrowing the cage I once proudly built around myself.
I wish I could tell you exactly how I retrained my mind. It’s difficult! It’s a practice! It was a ritual until one day it was reality. Psychedelics helped along the way. Therapy, too. But by far, the most impactful thing I’ve done to heal my creative self is engaging creative communities. Dr. Bruce Perry, a neurobiologist specializing in trauma, told my girl Brené Brown that, “if you are in connection, you’re in an environment where you have many, many, many opportunities for healing, little iterative moments all through the day. […] it’s all about relationships. Relationships are the agent of change.” And I know that to be true.
For me, it started with Giselle Buchanan’s Written Into Being workshop. Surrounding myself with so many others who felt deeply and made art with shaky hands reminded me of how beautiful the process is when you create for the sake of creating. We wrote and read and grew together like a swaying sea of flowers by the highway, wild and trying and free. Thanks to Giselle, I’m far better about making things for the sacred and joyful practice of creation. I experiment with mediums that keep me in my body and out of my head. I make things and leave them not unfinished but imperfect. I make things and let them be. They are inherently Enough. Just like me.
acidic iPhone7 edit
And since then, both by intention and attraction, I’ve healed in friendship. Other Corporate Creatives, some full time freelancers, those who dabble in every medium and commit to none. I learn from their healthy perspectives, I empathize with their frustrations. There is nothing but support and understanding and play. It matters. It matters so much. Because even when you make art on your own, you don’t make it alone. The type of cathartic, life affirming writing I intrinsically plunge into may happen in the quiet, dark places but it only makes sense in the light, where it can live and breathe and connect me to others who feel the same.
Today, I share this not in hopes that anyone will like me, but so that someone can see me and themselves more clearly. And it feels so fucking good and light and free. So I write, fingers like tiny fists beating against the unmovable questions of life, hoping someone will reach out and hold my hand.