Imposture Syndrome

Infinite scrolling for inspiration - I'll get a spark, right?

I'm not gonna lie, I think I spend more time looking at what other people have created than creating my own art. Writing this, I question how willing I am to even call myself an artist versus just a slightly more nuanced online art viewer. At one point, I even did daily writing for over a year, which I even posted. Now, sometimes I'll find myself in that spiral of drawing the same 3/4 face and watching that little line blink on an empty white Word document.

To top it off, as chaos in the world has constant, bludgeoning momentum, I find myself feeling as empty as that white screen, or blank face. Part of me hit a point where the memory of voraciously creating faded.

Reading through old writing, looking through old art, my perception would warp into hypercritical cynicism. Yeah, that might be okay, but look what this other person did. Why aren't you trying this hard anymore? Move on already.

The longer I lock eyes with those blank pages, or don't even bother, the imposture syndrome deepens. Finding some ounce of persistence, and having that 20 minutes of creating, you could practically hear the squeaking and see the rust. How was this person ever an artist? Please return the name tag.

Okay, okay, I know, what value is there is going deeper into existential and deprecatory art crisis. I think sometimes it's actually easier to see yourself as an imposture. Scrolling, there is such an abundance of creators, and so many with something to say, a purpose behind what they make. It can be absolutely crippling. And likely if you read this far, you might know it better than I hope you do, or ever will.

The other day, I hit an odd level of frazzled exhaustion, where I was bestowed the honour of chaotic art confidence. After watching an episode of Cake, which was too real, I guess I hit a positive breaking point or such.

The art of not giving a --. I pressed my pencil down hard enough it indented 3 pages. I let myself draw like a child. I let myself steal ideas and execute them in what is best described as a pencil and page massacre.

With the side of my hand covered in graphite, I inadvertently smeared, there was an emotional epiphany. Not an intellectual one. A chaotic, childish, done feeling epiphany.

I'm allowed to make a mess.

I'm allowed to have 90% of my drawings look like a donkey's excrement. Words can just be words, feeling good on the tongue, haphazard and emotionless or overly emotional. It's just art. Even that sketch on the fridge by a five year old is art. You don't have to create masterpieces. You don't have to show the world anything. You can just make art (ie. a mess).

In the end of my spree of harsh, angular drawn beetles and a random man playing a saxophone with ginormous ankles, I found myself, in a satirically chuckle saying "I am an artiste."

And honestly, sometimes it's a matter of finding the humour in the absolute absurd feeling lie of saying out-loud "I am an artist!" when you've drawn a half stick-man with armpit hair. Eventually, you've said it enough, it just kinda comes out. Then, you can just chuckle knowing, I am three ducks in a trench-coat versus some angst-ridden, self depreciating person.

There is now the expectation of concrete advice: steps you can follow. Honestly, I wish it were that easy. But, we can at least try. So, without further ado, here is some arbitrary, numbered word vomit to possibly aid you:

1. Give yourself permission to be absolutely, horrendously bad.
2. Write passive-aggressive or outwardly aggressive sticky-notes for your blank pages and documents to tell them what's what.
3. Pretend you lost your internet connection for specifically 32.5 minutes.
4. Draw small mustaches on each drawing in that sketchbook that had the absolute audacity and disrespect to be bad when you very clearly demanded it to be a masterpiece.
5. Walk a little too long outside and proceed to flop down onto the ground and tell the ground a story about how frustrated you are with you and art's relationship. Make sure it is poorly written and executed.
6. Draw me like one of your French girls, but with your feet. Even if you don't draw and only write or have different creative hobbies.
7. Write about some random guy named Steve.

We ended at seven, since it's commonly a lucky number, which you need with this possibly useless advice that I really hope helps even a bit.

In all seriousness, if you are stuck in a state of imposture syndrome, know you aren't alone. Even those who seem affluent with confidence and success have felt imposture syndrome at least once, if not many, many more times. And, I believe in you. Or, at least I say that having never met you, and never seen or read your art. Which, I suppose means nothing. But, in case you have mommy or daddy issues, and/or have never been told it:

You are an artist and someone called Steve out there thinks you are a great one.