Permission To Be Creative
I sat in class with my eighth – grade head on the table. I was ashamed. Dread climbed up from my stomach and formed a knot in my throat as I anticipated telling my parents about the D grade I had just received in art. I was a straight-A student. A D was absolutely unacceptable, especially in art of all subjects.
I loved art.
I didn’t understand all the principles, but I loved creating things. Painting was not really my thing, but I loved line drawing. Making those detailed lines of brick in a perspective drawing of a house thrilled me. I could represent what I saw in the real world. And oh the pottery; shaping clay into a cup or a bowl on the potter’s wheel or building a box from clay ropes. I loved working with clay.
But that D would change everything.
I internalized I am not creative.
The long-term impact was to repress a vital part of my being. I associated creativity only with the visual arts and accepted that I did not measure up. I have even worn that as a proud badge of honor while secretly I wanted to be involved in art.
Occasionally, I would confess to close friends about how that D grade came to be. I honestly did not think I deserved it. It was not even based on a lack of skill. It was based on not turning in a major project. To this day I swear I turned it in, but somehow it was lost. Knowing myself, I can’t imagine how my perfectionistic tendencies would not turn in a project. Even in Junior High that was out of character. I appealed the grade to no avail. The teacher was always right and not to be challenged.
But that one incident had ongoing implications. I was not encouraged to further any art activities. In fact, I was blatantly discouraged.
The stinging continued, with occasional jibes at my expense. It became a joke in the family, even though I didn’t think it was funny, and it stoked the fire of embarrassment within me.
From that point on, I would say in casual conversation, “Oh, I’m no good at art. Can’t even draw a stick man straight.” My companions and I would all laugh at my self-deprecating joke. But the sting of that D in Art was still there underlying it all.
I felt “less than”.
Inadequate.
Stifled.
I went on to a career that had nothing to do with art. I accepted I was no good at art and not creative.
One day I saw a simple post on Facebook by Pamela Hodges, who is an artist and friend. She said: “You can draw.” Something in that simple statement triggered me to forgive my 10-year-old self. Maybe I was not a failure at art. Maybe I could be creative.
I picked up a pencil.
It was okay not to be good. It was okay just to enjoy the process, to practice and maybe even to get better.
All these years later, I discovered I am indeed creative. I just did not recognize it. I am creative with cooking, writing, and building things from spare parts. I had to forgive myself and my parents to get to this point. I had to come to terms with not being perfect the first time and committing to a lot of practice.
I will probably never display a pencil drawing at the Met. That’s okay. It’s not my goal. My goal is to be free to create and remove any emotional boundaries that inhibit my creative expression.
I give myself permission to draw, but mostly to write and be creative however I wish.
Thank you Pamela.