Why Make Things?
Creating as legacy
In 1940, four teenagers followed their dog into a cavern near Montignac, France, and found themselves looking at paintings from the Upper Paleolithic period. These paintings are believed to have been created from 15,000- to 17,000 years ago and are mostly depictions of animals. This cavern was opened to the public from 1948 to 1963 before being closed in the interest of preservation; since 1983, a nearby replica has received tens of thousands of visitors annually [1].
While 15,000 years can seem like an unimaginable stretch of time, in 2021, impressions of children’s handprints which are believed to have been made between 169,000 and 226,000 years ago were found in Tibet [2].
What draws visitors to these caves (or replicas)? What inspires the awe felt when visiting Pompei, or the Terra-Cotta Army? Surely in some cases, like the Great Pyramids, part of it is a sense of scale. When we see the bodies of the inhabitants of Pompeii [3], or the handprints of children so similar to those left on modern-day freshly poured sidewalks, for a moment we can see backwards past any traceable lineage.
The desire to leave a mark on the world – both literally and metaphorically – is both a conscious and subconscious driver. In the public conception, a life well-lived is often entangled with a life that is remembered. Among artists, some would be surprised to find that they are remembered widely (Van Gogh), some would be likely be shocked to be remembered at all (Henry Darger), some would probably expect it (I imagine painting the fresco of the Sistine Chapel would have given Michelangelo an inkling that he’d have some name recognition, although seven-hundred years is a long time).
Creating as an opening
When we create, we are often opening ourselves up. Wherever this vulnerability comes from, it’s hard to avoid it. Whether we’re opening ourselves up to criticism, or the subject matter is sensitive, or the act of creation brings uncomfortable feelings, there is always the potential for pain. Even when creation brings pure joy, pain has led to it, or could follow from it. There’s no safe way to create continuously.
I used to think of myself as an open book. The more I think about it, the more I realize that in interactions where I am presenting myself, I am constantly modulating my behavior and speech to produce a certain outcome. It’s easy to show things when the reaction is immediate and I’m able to react in turn.
On the other hand, with a physical object, a performance, a recording, you are showing a product that you can’t change immediately, if at all. Once a movie has been released, it’s out there. I’ve scoffed at movies in the past, wondering how no-one in such a laborious and long-lasting process realized it was bad. Recently, I’ve been touched by the act of releasing something you sincerely believe in, offering it up to people… even if maybe it was a mistake.
A soft spot
While I’ve always wanted to consider myself artistic or creative, I’ve always felt a bit like I’m putting on a show, secretly more of a curator, a collector, a consumer, an admirer. While art can move us, ultimately the consumer has the privilege of judging rather than being judged. I’ve always been easily discouraged by things not turning out the way I want them to, and rarely have had the drive to work past the fear of being judged – by myself or others – on something that is imperfect.
Over the past little while, I’ve slowly been trying to untangle that, work through the fear of mediocrity, and accept that sometimes it really doesn’t have to be about the end result. The adage about it being about the journey has always felt a little like a lie, a consolation prize. But I’ve realized (or at least convinced myself) that putting one foot in front of the other is the only way to get somewhere, and that even if the destination is mildly disappointing, the next one might not be.
When creating, I’m often surprised to find the feelings that are coming up, but they always come back to the fear that I am showing someone a part of myself. Often, I worry that this part of myself is just that I am completely untalented. Increasingly I’ve found myself worrying that trying to be good and not getting there is embarrassing; I think that this comes from the constant policing made possible by the internet, and what feels to me like the ever-growing sprawl of cringe.
When I bake, I know that ultimately what comes out of the oven will be offered to someone, and the worry that it will be disappointing either to me or them is something I often sit with the entire time. When I knit, I almost always have to do something in order to make up for a mistake when counting the stitches in some row. When I try to make visual art, I need to contend with things not being particularly exceptional.
If creating is, as I think the cave drawings show us, a manifestation of some human (maybe cross-species, honestly) instinct, then suppressing that urge out of a fear of mediocrity or imperfection is cruel. Expression of emotion is the most natural thing in the world. In an age where we see so many people doing so many things online, it is so easy to judge – and much harder be vulnerable and give people grace when they are being vulnerable. So, I will be baking as an experiment and wearing my slightly imperfect knits and openly sobbing at the movies and defending people who clap when the airplane lands, or at least try to.
[1] "Lascaux cave paintings discovered." History, A&E Television Networks, 29 Sept. 2021, www.history.com/this-day-in-history/lascaux-cave-paintings-discovered.
[2] Muzdakis, Madeleine. "Archeologists Discover Children’s Handprints in Cave From 200,000 Years Ago." My Modern Met, 27 Sept. 2021, mymodernmet.com/childrens-handprints-in-cave-art/.
[3] Dimuro, Gina. "See The Preserved Bodies Of Pompeii’s Victims, Trapped In Their Agonizing Final Moments." All That's Interesting, edited by Adam Farley, 6 Sept. 2022, allthatsinteresting.com/bodies-of-pompeii.