I've written on this topic before and it's still one of my favorite perennial questions. I ask myself this question a lot when I find myself feeling that little sour churn of "no, I don't want to do that [insert certain thing] in my work.
Then I get to ask myself, "why not?" What am I resisting? What am I afraid of? Will it be too difficult or challenging? Will it be perceived as too risque? Is it out of my "comfort zone"? Why?
Over the years I've varied my stylistic approaches and worked in many different markets and genres so it may surprise you to learn that I've turned down tons of illustration work that didn't fit my aesthetics or values: the cigarette company ad, the cartoony label for baby diapers, a certain religious book for kids. I really don't say no to a lot, but there are some lines I draw in the sand. I resist making work for ideologies I don't agree with or if I perceive it will conflict with my own ideas about health or safety.
Some resistance is a good thing.
There have been those times where I'm genuinely daunted by the sheer amount of work I know it'll take --usually in the form of some kind of unforgiving repetitive pattern or an unfamiliar and odd perspective, but I'm not lazy and so I just wearily persist my way through it. I've also resisted painting in styles of a more loose or fluid way. My comfort zone is an "illustration style" that focuses on drawing with paint. So when my mentor in grad school asked me to create an oil painting using a palette knife, I nearly lost my damn mind. Gawd, I hated that exercise! I thought the result was just horrible. Trying to use a palette knife to apply paint to make a realistic image was novel and I was fumbling badly. My lack of control was just producing mud with it and I couldn't wait to trash the damn thing. Ugh.
Why this resistance?
We create our artistic identities by building our skill sets around the beliefs we hold about ourselves. We latch on to them as defining who we are, given that art-making is such a personal thing and gives evidence to the world about who we are. Or at least we think it does.
And then our brain, a marvelously efficient machine at conserving energy, decides, "hey, babe, we've learned it and now we no longer have to figure it out. It's done. Let's just make work now." Of course, we can thank our amazing brain for our survival. Autopilot is the best thing ever for so many tasks. Except maybe art.
Ask yourself if you're coasting on autopilot and resisting new ideas and new ways of doing/ making art because it's in your comfort zone. When you get that sneaky little thought that you might do something a little (or a lot) different, or you get a glimmer of that naughty little idea that makes you giggle but might make Aunt Bertie blush, don't squash it. Take a pause and ask yourself if you don't want to resist it this time.
It was fascinating for me to watch myself letting go of some of that illustration "control" to make work that was looser, painterly, less representational, and more open to interpretation. Figurative work that I'd resisted all my life, was becoming a big component of my work. Mural-sized work found its way into my portfolio even though I swore I would never work large. Letting in some new stuff gave me more tools in my toolbox, which created space for new thoughts around new ideas. Letting go of unnecessary resistance made me a better artist with bigger ambitions and a more complex array of ideas and processes. Recognizing what I was resisting was one of the absolute best things I took away from grad school.
Your work's right to exist doesn't depend on whether you've been validated, or trained, or praised, or paid. It depends on whether you show up for it.
A friend of mine and I have been arguing about realism in art. It started with a conversation about photo reference. It prompted a larger question in my mind: what makes realism meaningful in the first place? And how much of it does a viewer actually need?
Some of my sigil tiles sprouted wings—so naturally, the paintings had to follow. In this post, I share how clay sketches began transforming into small oil paintings, carrying the Eye of Providence and other symbols into dreamlike new forms.
I’ve been having a lot of fun with the sigil series lately. I especially enjoy making them in rhythm with the seasons—letting each one echo the mood of the turning year.
Lughnasadh is a time of harvest, of gathering what’s grown, and of giving thanks for all that has carried us this far.
Why do I sculpt so many eyes into my work? It’s a question I get asked a lot—sometimes nervously. The answer has more to do with protection, presence, and ancient symbolism than you might expect...
When I made this piece, I started thinking differently about legacy. It’s not just about me lasting. It’s about us. I want humanity to survive this perilous moment we’re living through. I want us to make it to the other side of whatever this is….
Asimov’s I, Robot stories; the idea of positronic brains, the laws of robotics, etc., fascinated me. I loved the mix of complex ancient civilizations, philosophy, and science fiction. His writing made the potential exploration of worlds by future beings seem so vast and interesting.
How is it possible to feel a “continuity of self” when all the cells in my body— with the exception of the lens of my eye— have regenerated more than once? I’m certain that I’ll still feel continuity of self when I’m 75.
What has become pretty clear to me is this: Artists who use their work or others’ work to train an AI to spit out images for them to paint are completely missing the real value of what they potentially could get from working with an AI assistant.
Some time ago, my friend, Marian, asked me to make a sigil tile for her. What the heck was that? I thought. A sigil, or “seal” is a magical symbol of a desired outcome based on a word.
I’ll be attempting to provide you with shorter blog posts more frequently— once or twice a week — to fill you in on what’s happening in my studio.
Recently, I downloaded the ChatGPT app to see what all the fuss was about and I was pleasantly surprised at how immediately the AI made itself useful…
Recently, I sold this little piece and was quite happy to hear that the buyer was someone who was familiar with my ceramics (they have a handful of monsterpots) but was totally unfamiliar with my drawings and paintings…
Heartbreak is only temporary pain as I scoop the shattered bits of tiles into the dustpan or repair kiln shelves from the bubbled bits of glass fused to their surfaces. My heart begins to mend from the many failures with every dried bit of greenware I dump back into the clay reclamation bucket. Because with every failure, I earn an experience which teaches me something new about my craft.
Can we separate the artist from their output? Can we value the genius of an artist’s ouvre if the artist is a jerk? Conversely, if the artist is a genuinely stellar human being but their work is sort of meh, will their art be as memorable and legacy-worthy? I think this question merits real analysis because I think it sheds a lot of light on how art is consumed by the public. It’s always said that people don’t buy art, they’re buying the artist. But why?
One of the challenges I faced while making ceramics over the past several years is how to re-create something as it was the first time. Someone will say— “Oooh, I love that!” and want the same thing. This is where molds and stamps come in handy….
Making the award sculptures for ConGlomeration’s Art Show was a fantastic time. Being given carte blanche meant I could just have a blast imagining anything at all…
Having had the span of a 13 year hiatus gave me the critical distance to finally understand this piece which has real importance to me as an artist and is significant to my life as a human.
While art-making isn’t as high stakes as eating a wild mushroom, sometimes it can feel just as terrifying to “trust the process” when you don’t have a clue where your work is going or how you’ll get it where you want it to be.
Mentors are super important! If you don’t have one or several, get thee some right away. And if you have the chance to mentor someone else, it could greatly and positively impact their life in ways that can’t be quantified.
Art collaborations are quite interesting. There’s Warhol & Basquiat, Dali & Buñuel, Björk & Barney, and the list goes on. Artists work together to stretch their abilities and techniques, and to gain important feedback about their work. In a collaborative visual artwork, you’re also “listening” to what the other artist is creating …
If I wasn’t dozing off, I was taking note of the art in this church. Morning light streamed into the floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows bursting with colored fragments, scattering light everywhere. Can we appreciate the aesthetics even though we no longer engage in the religious culture?
Laura Ingalls’ book and series, Little House on the Prairie, about her life as a pioneer, was an incredibly influential bit of literature for me in an important time in my life. Few books had such a lasting effect on me as this one did.
You know those people who sit in the stands and throw trash onto the field. They’re the ones who are verbally beating up the players, flinging invectives and general negativity. They’ve never been on the field. Never players. And yet they feel competent to criticize or judge something they themselves have never done…
We sometimes hear people referring to their children and family surname as their “legacy” and this is an oft heralded achievement. But when artists use that word, legacy, it’s suspect. Is it because we’re not dead yet? Because we haven’t yet finished the work? Perhaps legacy is…
What is letterlocking? It's the old practice of sewing and sealing your letter with wax to create an “envelope” to ensure that the letter hasn’t been read and that it hasn’t been tampered with. In 2022, unopened letters from Mary Queen of Scots surfaced and were unsealed by historians. The banished rival of Queen Elizabeth I used a “dagger”…
In 2023, my keyword is commitment. It’s not a very flashy word inspiring a lot of boldness or risk, but one that speaks of quiet grit. It’s a word that really describes what I feel is an appropriate focal point for my current thought.
You see, I know what burn-out is….
I started working on weekends and summers when I turned 14. My very first job was cleaning hotel rooms. The cigarette smoke and weird smells of the aerosol cleaners weren’t a great combination (and people can be really gross), but I could walk to work and…
Most artists have been taught that self-critique means finding what's wrong and fixing it. But real self-critique isn't subtractive — it's gravitational. Here's how to find the signal that actually guides your best work.