If it doesn’t get 100 likes, did you really make art?
A new notebook excites me. I have maybe 20 sitting waiting to be filled, under my desk, at this current moment. I stopped buying school supplies a good two years ago. I’m a sucker for the potential of a fresh start.
I remember being nine years old, sitting down with my fresh, college-ruled Five Star notebook. I would delicately take out the single Sharpie marker my parents decided I was old enough to have and write my name big on the front. That way, everyone would know that it was my beautiful brand new notebook, and I would fill it with all my genius ideas that would lead to fame, fortune and ultimately marrying Aaron Carter.
This was all well and good — except I would screw up writing my name every single time. My handwriting wasn’t the big, beautiful loopy kind or even the nice, clean print. My handwriting looked so aesthetically unpleasing that I would try to quickly fix it, making my last name into a smiley face, which ultimately led to making my brand new notebook look like a hot mess. I was gutted and discouraged. I would hide the notebook away, scared to even fill it with all my nine-year-old dreams, worried that my art would never live up to the image I had in my head or the standards of my peers.
Cut to present day. I scroll through Instagram seeing post after post of someone studying (belongings arranged artfully), someone’s doodles (if you count beautiful illustrations as such), someone’s classroom notes (color coded with cute handwriting) and someone’s art, where the half-finished painting looks like my full paintings do on a good day in the best lighting. I’m discouraged that my notes and doodles aren’t cute or kitsch enough to compete in the realms of cool artists who express themselves even in the smallest section of their lives. My handwriting still sucks when I write quickly, and it only betters when I’m purposefully trying to be cute. And that alludes to a bigger problem.
My process of creating, whether it’s painting or drawing or planning a week out in my journal, isn’t always pretty and isn’t always Instagram-worthy. I feel paralyzed by the notion that what I make won’t garner me attention, won’t receive likes. I know deep down that my identity as an artist shouldn’t surround my social media presence or what my peers deem as artsy enough to like. But I still sometimes create with the amount of likes in mind, and that’s gross.
The pressure of living a picture perfect life and making picture perfect art takes a toll. Everyone has heard the adage that social media is just the highlight reel of other people’s lives. By only viewing the highlight reel, we miss the more unfortunate parts of living, and artists miss the hard work and despair in making something to be proud of. With everything filtered and artfully arranged, it appears that creation is some effortless journey. We miss out on the bad art you have to make along the way.
Bad art is good, bad art is healthy, bad art means growth as an artist and as a person. Bad art doesn’t mean the end of your life or the end of your art. Bad art doesn’t own you — it is just simply bad art. You have to write your name sloppily on a notebook, but live with it. Still fill that notebook with ideas, dreams and Aaron Carter wedding plans. Believe that your bad art, no matter the number of likes in mind, is beautiful as a part of the process.
Instagram might be a great platform to share the process of creating or the finished product. Instagram might also be a great way to capture exact moments in this chaotic beautiful life. However, Instagram, or any social media for that matter, shouldn’t stifle who you are as an artist or as a dreamer. In the wise words of our teacher, Ms. Frizzle of the “Magic School Bus” fame: “take chances, make mistakes, get messy.” Make bad art.
