On Being a Poser
And how we trick ourselves into giving up.
No matter how I approach something, I end up being a poser. I'll Talk to anyone who will listen about the project. I'll act like I don't want to talk about it but I desperately want to talk about it. But it's all talking instead of working. Talking feels almost like working, so it's close enough to trick my brain into thinking I'm working. But I'm not working. And if by some miracle I do start working, I take forever on everything. And when I take forever on something, it seems bigger than it is. Which leads to not finishing. It's always starting, starting, starting, but never getting past the first level.
I have a drawing mounted to plywood, prepped, and ready to become a painting. I mounted that drawing before the pandemic.
I start to obsess about the process. But the process is irrelevant since I'm talking, not doing. I bought some gouache last year. "I'm gonna practice painting with gouache. I'm gonna paint something every week." I painted one study in my sketchbook. It took a few weeks. And over there, five feet from where I sit as I write this, rests brand new tubes of gouache. Untouched for months. Why would I ever buy new art supplies? I have acrylic paint from art stores that have since gone out of business. I have colored pencils that are older than the nation of Serbia. My studio is a shrine to the possible. French cleats on the wall, poised to hold a plethora of canvas sizes. First-order retrievability for Copic markers, colored pencils, acrylic paint, oil paint, brushes, inks, and pastels. Canvas paper, illustration board, sketchbooks, and Arches hot press drawing paper. That's the smoother finish. Less “tooth” than the cold press. All in the service of...what, exactly? Only a poser would have all the gear and never use it.
My excuses are hilariously vapid. I don't have the right tools. I don't have the right supplies. I don't have a place to put anything. I should get organized first. I don't have enough time. The time excuse is the worst, as though leisure time is some immovable monolith. I couldn't possibly abstain from watching movies or TV every day. Oh and I love sports, so I have to watch those. I have to. “It's football season, so no fewer than 12 hours per week is booked solid.” “It's hockey season, so I have to set aside 2.5 hours every other night to watch the games.” “It's Formula 1 season, so that's 3 more hours per weekend since I have to watch the race on Sunday and qualifying on Saturday.” “It's the Masters.” “It's the US Open.” “It's a Major.” “It's the playoffs.” “It's the World Cup.” “It's the Olympics.”
It's a miracle I even have time to eat solid food and use the bathroom.
“Well, I don't want to focus on too many things at once.” But in the next breath, I rattle off a paralyzing number of ambitions: “I want to draw graphite portraits like Stephen Bauman.” “I want to paint immaculate gouache vignettes like Sibylline.” “I want to set up a darkroom in my basement so I can shoot, process, and print my own black-and-white photographs using my old Canon AE-1.” “I want to refresh my anatomy knowledge so I can draw more dynamic figure poses.” “I want to make nostalgic fan art like Glen Brogan.” It never ends.
My poserdom isn't limited to the visual arts. I want to write. Writing is at least a single medium, but it falls prey to the same pattern of inefficiency. What to write about? What's the subject? What's the tone? I tried to write a blog post every day in the summer of 2020. That lasted 12 posts. "Maybe I'll write every other day." That lasted 4. Then instead of 4 posts in 8 days, it was 4 in 15. Then 30. Then only 1 every 30 days. A last gasp when the new year hits bumped me back up to 5 posts in 30 days, but that quickly turned into 5 posts in 5 months. Finally, a family move 1,000 miles north put the doomed endeavor to rest.
The familiar death spiral of a creative ambition is caused by an unreliable routine. Every time I think I have a routine figured out, natural changes in my temperament lead to its alteration and eventual abandonment. Routines need to be reliable. Repeatable. Bulletproof. Patience is required. Patience is paramount. Impatience is what cuts me down at the knees. Impatience is what causes me to start new thing after new thing after new thing. Patience is making a list and sticking to it. Patience is making a list - a list I might even have a prayer of completing - and sticking to it. “I will only ship one art project per month because that is all I'm capable of doing.” That sounds possible. I can work with that.
But then the comparison train rolls into the station.
But James Jean ships new paintings every week. He ships new paintings and makes prints with novel mixed media techniques. He ships new paintings, makes prints, and commissions sculptures based on his paintings. He ships new paintings, makes prints, commissions sculptures, and still has time for commercial work.
Comparison to others is the easiest and most effective method of sabotage available. It's in the handbook they give to members of the CIA. Members of the poser CIA. My brain is a member of the poser CIA.
I recall a quote from Adam Savage regarding self-doubt and how misaligned our perceptions are of how other people perceive us: "Only you know how lazy you are." This essentially means giving yourself a break. Others will never see the comparison between your ambition and your output because it only exists in the mind of the individual. Case in point, I often believe I'm a poser. But compared to what? That's the rub. When I play the comparison game, I only weigh myself against inflated assumptions. I will always be a poser compared to my industrious but non-existent other self. And compared to other artists, writers, and designers who are world-famous for their fantastic work. I assume they all accomplished way more at much younger ages. And they ship more often. And they work harder. They love it more, want it more, and do it more. I bet they're drawing, shooting, painting, writing, and shipping as we speak. While I sleep. While I eat. While I watch TV. While I play with my kids. Every moment I'm not creating, they are.
Yes. They are. But in all these unfair comparisons, I never consider the waterline. These famous creators at the upper echelon of their field are the tip of the output iceberg. Below the surface lurks an unwashed mass of humanity that is somehow even less productive than I am. So I must return my gaze to focus only on the extent of my capability. What can I finish? Not what do I wish I could finish? Not what are others finishing? What can I finish? That is good enough. That has to be good enough. Because if that isn't good enough, I'll look for ways to expand it. And if I'm spending time looking for ways to expand it, that's time spent not finishing.
The clock just struck 6:30 am. In thirty minutes, my writing time is up and my art project time begins. Even though I have time set aside every day for this, I don't remember what I'm supposed to be working on. That is a red flag. I pull up my project list and as I review my priorities, I remember why I couldn't remember. I'm stuck. I can't get past the first stage of sketches. And because progress has slowed, I've started siphoning my art time into my writing time to catch up for the lack of writing production. This is bad for my writing and bad for my art. I can't make art if I steal its time away, and adding extra time to my writing block removes the built-in urgency I utilize to crystalize my thoughts effectively; without that, I can let my mind wander because I have more time than usual. And a wandering mind usually leads me back into counterproductive comparisons and defeatist lines of existential inquiry.
"Why do I keep trying?"
"Why not abandon this part of my life and throw away all these unused art supplies?"
"Why not lower my expectations?"
"Why keep fighting to improve?"
This year I want to write more. This year I want to draw more. This year I want to finally make a painting that I think is good.
"Why?"
Look at the imposter syndrome it puts me through. Look at the early mornings and disappointments. Look at the shame, anxiety, and insecurity of being a poser. The pain of having ideas without acting on them. The Sisyphean efforts to get out of my own way and push through the creative wall.
There are two answers. One is echoed by every creative person who ever amounted to anything. Every prolific writer, artist, musician, and designer will tell you the same thing: do not stop. One of my favorite creators, Van Neistat, summarizes this when talking about his routine and the war against burnout: “One of the Masterclass writers - or maybe several of them - have hammered home that the routine is the job. Routine over everything.”
The second answer is as follows:
The elderly man is tired and battered from the tribulations of his latest work.
He picks up his quill, dabs the edge of the inkwell, and begins again.
"Why do you do this?" asks the boy.
"Because," the man replies, "the mental pain I endure when I work is a fraction of the spiritual pain I endure when I don't."
Oh dear, you are your mother’s son…sorry about that. Great writing that definitely awakened me! Thank you.