Practicing Being Slow.
Fighting perfectionism and enjoying the slow process of art & life
I gather timber from a gumtree felled last season. Ugly wood. The pieces of old tree that were left unwanted at first pickings. But apparently ugly wood, too, burns hot. As we huddle near the flames, we appreciate anew the warmth produced by unlovely logs.
At the beginning of the day, at the end of the wood pile, I go out with the dog to the field behind the house and gather another load. Neither me nor Daniel care to spend a precious Saturday chopping down a tree. Not at this late in spring, when the fluffy yellow blossom tempt us to believe warmer days are coming to stay. However, we shan’t be foolish enough to believe those thoughts. We’ve kept the stove lit as late as late November in years past.
I pile up the wheelbarrow. An ugly wheelbarrow. Cracked in the bottom with a crooked and flat tire. But apparently ugly, cracked, crooked wheelbarrows remain useful carrying wood from A to B. With great effort I push the sluggish load through the mud, yet with more ease than carrying small amounts in my arms.
I’m in need of such assistance today.
The dog looks up at me bored and unhelpful. A dog that doesn't know how to fetch is baffling to me. But even so, he is cute, and i’m sure has other qualities.
He wanders back to the house to sniff and stand guard.
Life this way is slow and impractical, some might say. But I am learning that in the slow and tangible (usually cumbersome) tasks, imagination and creativity can emerge. Ugly wood is allowed to become useful and wonky wheelbarrows are given a second chance.
It seems I’m learning these lessons outside the studio as well as within.
Now I sit down to create a painting. An ugly painting, as it turns out.
After my cheerful attitude of gratitude doing chores this morning, I should appreciate its potential worth, but I’m having trouble. I’m slow to recognise that even a failed painting does in fact feed the fire of creativity. It fights perfectionism with every brushstroke, and strengthens creative boldness through humility.
It’s all slow business. It’s slow living. And I am learning that only through practicing this process will the paralysis of perfectionism diminish. If a broken wheelbarrow can still carry wood, surely my ill-favoured painting can yet teach me something. Even if that something is to try again.
While studying Fine Arts at university, I took a class that focused almost exclusively on creating ugly artwork (much to every student’s horror). We were specifically denied the pleasure of finishing anything. The point (or so we were told) was to appreciate the creative process that battled perfectionism. We were pushed to begin (then begin again and again), and encouraged to accept the slow practice that is art making.1
Did it work? Well, yes. A confidence and child-like pleasure in creating replaced my fear of beginning while the expectations of perfection were lifted. Why has that fear crept back in now? I simply don’t practice the slow process with a willingness to fail. If it’s not going to be good the first time then what’s the point? Do you ask yourself the same question?
“Make more ugly artwork!” Our professor reminded his students often. A similar sentiment, I suppose, to “make more mistakes”. Yoda would disagree, but a creative practice will teach you that there is value in the trying, even if that try does not succeed.
So, how do I continue to practice this slow living outside of the studio?
Can life itself — the process of living and doing — be beautiful, even if I (an imperfect human) am doing it? What about all my inelegant mistakes and ugly failures?
If there is redemption for ugly wood when I appreciate it’s warmth, and redemption for a wheelbarrow as I use it with gratitude, is there redemption for us and our imperfections when we accept the Grace offered? I do heartily believe so.
I am beginning (again) to understand that the pursuit of beauty in living and in art is laborious and filled with failings, but the process itself is also beautiful. And I am shaped, grown, and refined in the making. Slowly.
I write these things to remind myself.
Perhaps, however, it’s a reminder that can encourage you, too?
Specifically studio news:
It’s taken me three years and a weekend to create this painting. I’ve been dreaming of painting big since completing my undergrad thesis work Postures of Attention. Sometimes I need a push to snap me out of dreaming and into doing. The push for beginning this piece was the quickly approaching deadline to submit to the Henry Jone’s Art Prize. Truly I am grateful for a quick deadline - no time for perfectionist procrastination. I bought the canvas on Thursday, and then disappeared into the dining room (the sunroom studio is too small for this monster) for the rest of the weekend, emerging occasionally for fresh air and snacks.
You’re the first ones to see the finished piece: “Layers of Light and Land”
Here’s what I wrote about it:
Here, in a small forgotten dam, earth and sky meet in the water. Layers of light and land. The complexity of creation is evident as I stare into the deep bright sky flickering with vibrant algae. Playfully I respond with vibrant colours and brushstokes, mimicking the dancing reeds and moving water. Imagination and observation flow together as I look closely into the bright shadows of Eucalypt branches that cast their shade over the bright surface, revealing the universe beneath and the reality above. Here, in a small forgotten dam, earth and sky meet.
This scene is one I discovered on one of my many slow walks through the hills above my home. I am grateful for the opportunity to respond to this beauty with paint. I look forward to launching into some more larger works this summer, piggybacking off the hype of this one.
But this week, I’m diving into tiny paintings (yay!) in preparation for a pre-Christmas sale (yayay!) .
More on that next week (this is me setting myself a deadline).
Thank you, dear reader, for enduring through this slow paced (and longer than usual!) newsletter. Your support and fellowship, even across the miles or the internet waves, means so very much.
May we all become more beautiful as we slow down and receive a bit more grace.
xx eleanor ann
My Prof, Kenneth Steinbach’s brilliant book, Creative Practices for Visual Artists can be bought here.
The book, Art and Fear is also fabulous.
Regarding the topic of the article, I strongly concur with the insightful observation that functionality and inherent worth often supersede initial aesthetic preceptions. Your examples brilliantly illustrate how what is initially deemed "ugly" or "unwanted" frequently holds significant practical value and can be deeply appreciated for its utility. It’s a truly valuable perspective on resourcefulness.