In this land of 24-hour media, we're constantly surrounded by perfection. Some of it's real, most of it isn't. Computer graphics can produce scarily pseudo-authentic beauty, be it in a book, a piece of art, or a TV program. And even when the radiance is real, it often looks like it sprang from the brush, the hands, or the mind of its creator fully formed, like Athena from the head of Zeus. We end up demanding those unrealistic feats of ourselves. We rip out all the practice pages and expect ourselves to declare our genius in the first stroke, the first placement of torn paper, even the first idea. Is it any wonder we shut our art in closets or swallow it in frozen lumps where it sits in our stomachs for years? And we continue on, appreciating beauty, and trying to ignore the vague uneasiness it brings up in us. We need to give ourselves permission to play, to explore, to have the skill level of a two year old, to not get it right from the very first. I think folks who do that are among the bravest there are. They're bucking the whole of popular culture and their own insides in effort to follow their hearts. That's courage. That's soul.
Lisa Fraser sent me this in an email I wanted to include it in my art journey. I am on day 61