Monday at Ikea

There was a time when I drew and painted because I loved to, and not to complete an assignment, or please a teacher, or make something that might be important.  There was a time when I created things without first thinking about how they would need to be installed, who would eventually see them, and what those people would think.  Sometimes my work was truly awful, but I didn’t care because I wasn’t afraid to screw up.  Sometimes it was great and I usually couldn’t tell the difference.

I have problems because I am trying to turn what I love into a career.  So now critics and critiques matter, and “because I like it” is not a sufficient answer to “Why did you make that?”

I spent this morning in a silk-screening studio, making a terrible mess, soaking myself with the sprayer at the sink, dripping ink on my clothes, and finishing with an image that wasn’t quite good enough to turn into bad wallpaper.  But it was fun.

I spent yesterday out in public, drawing pictures of people walking so fast past me that I couldn’t get a likeness, just a vague image with a sense of movement.  I gave hair to bald men and put hoodies on society ladies.  Why not?  They didn’t care and it was fun.

For me, fun might be the most important forgotten ingredient in what I make.  So I wonder, if I care less about everyone else’s opinion, will my art be better?  Or will I just like it more?  And will that make a career in art possible, or out of the question?