After many months of barely painting, of not being able to muster any real motivation, I bought an art journal.
I’ve never really kept one, but something in me wanted to try. I imagined I’d paint loose backgrounds and then write into them. Prompts like “50 things to do before the end of my 50th year” or “What would my 70-year-old self say to me now.”
But when I finally sat down in front of the color-washed pages to write, the words didn’t want to come. It felt like too much work, and my body resisted.
Truthfully, I’ve been practicing not working so hard. And I suppose my body was like, “Yay us! Here’s an opportunity to do the opposite of what we’d normally do.” It felt as if my spirit stopped in her tracks in the middle of a grueling hike she didn’t even want to be on and said, “Nope. Not doing this,” and turned around. Part surrender. Part resignation. But mostly, a quiet kind of empowerment.
Luckily, my friend Mati had just started a weekly paint-along on Zoom, and I stepped out of my usual teacher, professional-artist self and fully into the version of me that just wanted to be a brand new student with my brand new art journal. With that spirit, I followed her prompts across the blank pages, things like “make multi-directional marks,” “play with scale,” or “use your non-dominant hand.” No writing, just playing with crayons, watercolors, acrylics, pencils and pens.
I could feel myself loosening up, getting curious, exploring for exploration’s sake alone. It felt good, like not much was expected of me, which is honestly a priceless feeling. (When was the last time nothing was expected of you? What would you do or make if nothing was expected of you?)
Alongside my weekly painting playdate, I bought a book on keeping a sketchbook and followed its playful prompts, letting my pen or pencil or paintbrush wander around the pages. And I just kept allowing the marks to show up. And wow, those marks were…not good. But nothing was expected of me, so I let them be.
Each day, I’d draw or sketch or paint something pretty atrocious and then text it to Mati: “Here’s today’s bad art.” It became my little ritual, my version of accountability. I even wrote Make Bad Art Journal on the front of my sketchbook as a rebellious declaration. Make bad art, darn it. You MUST. And so I did.
And then something shifted. I started to crave this little practice and found myself making time for it every day. One day a still life, the next abstract marks, the next florals. I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve tried something completely new like this.
As someone who’s been making and teaching art for over two decades, I know the things we’re supposed to remember: let go, stay curious, don’t hold the painting too precious. I know all of that, and still, I hadn’t been living there. The pressure of making work people expected from me had quietly taken over, and I just stayed on that same very long hike, never allowing myself to turn back or take a different trail. The hard worker. The responsible one. It had become kryptonite for my creativity.
Now, after several weeks of this practice, something is shifting. It feels like I’ve finally gotten off the usual trail, seen a new horizon, and I’m wandering toward it, curious and in awe and inspired. I’m not actually there yet, but I like this path. It’s softer, more interesting and unexpected. Less hard. Happier.
Mati started telling me she actually liked some of the pieces, and then a friend asked if she could have one for her gallery wall. It made me look at my “bad art” differently, the way we look back at younger versions of ourselves in a candid photo, with softer eyes, with more grace and love and admiration.
And I’ve found myself wondering if it really can be this simple. Can I just show up, make whatever comes through me in my Make Bad Art Journal, and call it art?
I’m still inside that question.
One journal filled and now moving into the next, I feel more like an artist than I have in a long time. My noticing is sharper. I’m seeing everything with a kind of wonder, like my whole day has become a wonder walk. I stop to take photos, curious if I can sneak something I see into a line or a color in my journal.
And just this morning, I realized something. The journal I thought would document who I wanted to become in my 50s is doing exactly that. Just not with words, but with strange, whimsical shapes and colors and experimental paintings. And somehow, that feels more true to my becoming.
Wow.
Here’s to allowing our bodies to know what they don’t want, and trusting them enough to stop. To wander off the path for a bit, or maybe forever, and explore new ways of seeing.
May it be so.
