Sometimes, I’m afraid of making bad art. Art that disrespects the artform. As if the artform has some platonic standard that must be met. There are days when I don’t think I have the skillset to meet that ideal. Where I am all aspiration but no ability.
This , of course, is nonsense. Not that I am incapable of making bad art. It’s essential. Integral to every masterpiece every made is every horror that never made the light of day. The nonsense is the fear that I’m without ability. The ability needs to be used. If I subscribe to the idea that an artistic platonic ideal exists, the barrier between me and it is the subpar work I’m scared of doing.
Like a child mumbling gibberish before it’s first, magical word. If the child doesn’t babble, it doesn’t speak. You know this. It’s why parents are overjoyed when their child is a drooling, noisy mess. They’re shaken when the child is mute. I am the mute child on those days. Waiting until the perfect moment to say my first word.
Then I hear a laugh. A sound so beautiful, so pure , so communicative. Not a word but an expression. An understanding. Perfect in every way and in every language. The sound tells me that gibberish is genius. That art is the babbling, the attempt, the doing. The sound isn’t practice, but it inspires it. Inspires me. So I babble.
If I can babble, I can speak. If I can speak, I can Inspire.
So babble, with the pen, with the brush, with the lens, with the light. Babble with the string, with the metal, with the keys. I love the sound of your voice.