I’m eight years old.
I’ve brought home a ‘Chart’ – a large piece of thick paper which has been rolled up.
On this chart, I need to draw two boys running on a field. I want it to be perfect. I want it to look like the pictures I see in the books. I want it to be better than anything I’ve ever drawn.
I sit at my dining table, carefully unfurling the ‘Chart’ to reveal ten rows – each depicting a series of images my classmates have beautifully drawn. The last row is empty. Now, it’s my turn to draw.
I pick up my pencil to start. Then I stop. Then I try to start again.
This time, I push the pencil away. Dejected. Hours pass. I’m catatonic. Frozen in time.
By the time my father comes home from work, he sees me sitting at the dining table. All my pens are laid out in front of me and I’m looking absolutely distraught. And withdrawn.
“I don’t know how to draw two boys running on the field,” I pout.
My father takes a black marker. In a quick flourish, he draws two stick figures.
They’re the ugliest stick figures I’ve ever seen.
And on this chart with artistically fleshed out colorful characters, these two stick figures ‘stick out’ like a disgusting blemish.
Snap! My father puts the cover of the on to the pen with a click. He is smiling. “Now, you can go to sleep, Butha.”
His cheerful expression slowly sobers as he catches a glimpse of the thunderstorm that is now, my face. The tears fall thick and fast. I’m inconsolable now.
“It’s ruined! It’s ruined! I can’t even erase that! It’s ruined.”
I’m inconsolable. My father tries his best to comfort me – but eventually, I find myself weeping into my pillow. I’m crying so bitterly; I’m gasping for breath. I’m convinced this is the End Of The World.
LIBERATION FROM OTHER’S OPINIONS
Two years ago, I brought a stash of paints, paintbrushes and artist pads. I was living in a beautiful house in Ubud, Bali which had a huge table on the patio facing a lush green garden and the jungle beyond it.
I sat at that table for hours upon hours upon hours.
I drew, I painted, I tried out techniques. I have no formal training in art and at the same time, I was creating as if my livelihood depended on it. I found a portable lamp and carried it out to the table so I could continue drawing well into the night.
At the end of the summer, it came time to move. I was traveling to the USA and there was no way I could take all of the dried-up, thick pieces of paper with me. And so, I just chucked them out.
I often look back to that summer as the ultimate creativity liberation act.
The painting, the drawings, they were just what I wanted to do and needed to do. I sent a few pictures of it to my sister, Clea, who is an artist. She’d say some appreciative things and give me advice or share with me some videos to watch for tips. And that was it.
This experience to me was the opposite of my eight-year-old self.
No one was going to see it & no one really did see it. And so, I flowed. I flowed with time. I had no idea how to use watercolors or pastels. I just dabbled and dabbled.
Summer of 2019 at my place in Ubud, Bali.
FEAR OF REJECTION & ACCEPTANCE
This memory of my 8-year-old self, surfaced during a session with my therapist as I was meditating on why I feel stuck around creativity and exposure. As we worked through this issue, I realized some deeper links between creativity, wanting to be liked, and perfectionism.
As a child, I wanted to be accepted, to be liked, to belong and to be one of the others
And that desire was so strong – that it paralyzed me for hours.
Drawing is FUN.
An afternoon, when I get to listen to Stephen Fry, read the Harry Potter books while I draw mindlessly in my notebook is my definition of an incredible day. And yet, my 8-year-old self had turned this fun activity into something intensely painful.
Why? My take is acceptance.
This chart was going to be pinned onto the board. Everyone will see it. Everyone will notice what I did and didn’t do. I wanted to be BETTER than I was. I wanted to be the best. Truthfully, I had visions of artistry that I still can’t manage with the sophisticated motor skills of a 32-year-old.
Stephen Pressfield writes about this. When the artist ties his self-worth to his creation – he is in trouble. When we start to create and stop ourselves from creating – well, we’re stuck.
No one can help us.
No one, even a well-meaning father wants his child to just get on with it.
