Making Bad Art

When I was growing up, a lot of things came easily to me. Reading, writing, dancing, skiing… I learned quickly and excelled beyond the other kids my age. Because of this, as I got older, it frustrated me when I didn’t do things perfect the first time. I had to be the fastest. Know it by heart. Every painting had to be the best and every poem had to be perfect. As my knowledge grew with age, I would even go back and “fix” old stories or pictures, ashamed that I could ever create something so subpar to the ability I have now. If I struggled, I was a failure. If I didn’t get immediate praise, I couldn’t do it.

If I couldn’t succeed my first time, then why even try?

This mindset didn’t always cripple me, but it caused me to give up on a lot. I started hiding paintings I didn’t like under my bed, before quitting entirely when I realized I wasn’t going to be a great artist. I saw that my insufficient flexibility was keeping be from excelling at ballet, so I quietly asked my mom to pull me out. One day I found a notebook full of old verses and cringed at the clunky wording and silly rhymes, thereby labeling myself as “bad at poetry.” I even gave calligraphy a try, buying all the fancy pens and paper… before realizing how difficult it was and just leaving those tools to collect dust in my desk drawer.

“Audrey, this is just sad. What’s the point you’re trying to make?”

Hang on, I’m getting there.

In middle school, my best friends and I made the startling discovery that we could write stories about our favorite imaginary characters, and there was no stopping us after that. Hundreds of pages of typos, mischaracterizations, cringy dialogue, clunky descriptions, and, to be completely honest, bad writing.

But we did it together.

And we loved it.

For once, I didn’t care if my story was the best. I didn’t hyper-analyze my word choice or delete paragraphs of content out of disappointment. I just wrote and sent and smiled and laughed. I read the typo-ridden, non-formatted stories of my friends and didn’t feel the urge to judge, because they were just like mine. We loved our characters and we loved each other, and in that space we had the freedom to try and fail whatever we so desired. This extended to music, art, poetry, cosplay, and in our trial and error process we grew. Even when we left those worlds and stories behind, we all still use those skills we built amongst one another to this day.

Because shockingly enough, when you practice something you’re initially bad at, you actually get better!

When I go back and read those stories, I do laugh a little. Some of mine are pretty bad! But I no longer feel to urge to fix them, to erase the fact that I ever produced something so inferior.

Because that was me growing. That was me delighting in the freedom to make bad art.

And it’s something I’m working to rediscover.

This past year, I’ve picked up some of those abandoned hobbies. I’ve started dancing again, this time just because I love it. I draw occasionally, content with my minimal skill. I’ve been working hard at calligraphy to much personal satisfaction, and yes, I finally released my inner poet and have been trying my hand at that again. They’re nothing extraordinary, but my heart is there, and that’s the reason I love them. I’ll paste a few of my favorites at the end of this post, just to encourage you, my friends.

Don’t be afraid to make bad art. To hit a wrong note, misspell a word, or smudge the colors with your unpracticed hands. You never get better if you don’t begin… and at the end of the day, God created these things for His glory and your enjoyment.

Namárië, friends! Until next time!

Still
Life is Moving
But I will lie still.
Trains pull out of the station
Cars drive by, their tires sticky against the pavement. 
People walk
And talk
And laugh
Constantly moving, swaying, running.
But I will lie still.
Even time waits for no one
He marches on with determination
Paying no heed to those crying “stop” 
Or others pleading for him to hurry
The sun sets
The moon rises
Loping their course set in the sky
As they have since the dawn of creation
But I,
I will lie still.
Birds fly, singing secret songs
Babies cry, just wanting to grow up
When will they learn to be still?
Even the plants grow and die
Leaves tumbling from their positions above, branches cracking beneath burdens of snow
This world is life
This world is death
Change and movement, ceaseless action
I want to join in the parade
To run and dance and think and sway
But I feel my soul tiring
Of the eternal charade
I want to lie still.
And let the world rush by in its haste.
No longer am I frightened, that it will all pass me by. 
Not when I’m with you.
Soaking in the last rays of daylight.
Smelling the rain as it falls.
Watching the endless blue of a finally cloudless sky.
Here. Here is the still. Here is the peace.
Not silence. Not answers.
Just peace.
And just You.

Cold
Like ice refusing to budge on your windshield
Like wind rushing under your coat
Like snow steadily weighing down the boughs of the trees
Like a grey sky
Like coarse concrete
Like the darkness of winter
And the loneliness of solitude.
Cold steals our breath and robs our strength 
We’re left to watch as it slowly creeps closer
As the drifts climb higher
And snow continues to fall.
Like confetti on an endless breath, it wanders in flight
Gentle
Meandering
Like my thoughts as they swirl in the winter winds
How can something as starkly beautiful and inherently joyful as snow make my heart so sad?
Perhaps it brings me back to a childhood forever lost
To sleds scraping and snow crunching.
Maybe I see my home in it’s white embrace,
Far away from me until summer comes again.
Do I long for its indifference, to just rest where I fall on this cold journey?
Or do I wish for it’s clean white freedom, unmarred and unworried?
It’s beautiful as it ebbs and flows on the breeze, crowning Chicago in an ethereal halo.
And yet it is also cold.
And today, that makes me sad.

Warm
 Like a blanket against your arms.
 Like pale sunlight in the clouds.
 Like laughter on the air
 And smiling, sparkling eyes.
 It brings life and settles the thundering heart,
 It is reassurance in my mother’s voice
 And her love from miles away.
 It is friendship bound by shared experience and passion and joy and love.
 It is understanding 
 And knowledge
 And the peace of a job well done.
 It is safety from danger
 And judgement
 And the bitter January wind.
 It is the cold, dead of winter.
 But even here there is warmth.

Chicago February
A landscape of fading brick and cracked concrete
 Beneath a blanket of fallen snow
 It’s beginning to wake up
 With flickering lights and the train’s roar
 But does a city like this ever even sleep?
 Life exists restlessly within these walls
 Walking these streets in well-trodden paths through the snow.
 Where are they going,
 All these purposeful people?
 Why are they here,
 In this sleepless city?
 Are they like me, sojourners longing for home?
 Or rather, is this kingdom of cacophonous lights their only dwelling place?
 I hope they all find their way
 As I follow after mine.

City of Shadows
Oh city of shadows,
 The darkness you cast is great.
 Warping light into jagged forms
 Illuminating in aimless paths
 Of sparkling sunlight and fluttering dust.
 Bathing the streets in a warm embrace
 Arms of ethereal brilliance,
 Behind which cold shades are hidden.
 Corridors of gloom and dusk
 Silent archways of stone
 Monoliths of a time forgotten
 Tucked away from the life of the sun
 Hidden amidst a sanctuary of progress.
 People of purpose march relentlessly forward
 Taking little note of the change.
 Do they notice that transcendent transition
 From light to dark?
 From known to concealed?
 From seen to unrevealed?
 How much they miss in their willing oblivion.
 I see your secrets,
 Oh city of shadows.