BARE: PULLING THREAD
BARE: PULLING THREAD
“These feelings of inadequacy have haunted my creative ego for years, and I am terrified of risking misinterpretation.”
Issue 23
Fall 2022 Pulling Thread, Issue 32 BARE magazine
The first sweater I made had a three-inch hole sewn into the front.
When I had initially slipped the thing over my head and felt the gap, I turned towards the mirror and frowned. There, in the middle of my stomach, was a mistake I had made, one that looked as derisive as the look I saw plastered on my face. The longer I looked, and the more unsure I became as to where I had misstepped, the more my mistake became an abstraction to me: a rerouting to what I had initially planned.
I stared at my reflection, moving closer to the mirror to see where I went wrong, worrying about what I could have done better or changed.
In my fit of frustration, I could do nothing except yield to my mistake. Without taking the sweater off, I grabbed some leftover green yarn and started stitching it into random areas of the sweater, paying no mind to where I placed the strings, so long as it filled in the hole.
It somehow morphed, through this invasive revision, into a physical articulation of who I am and what I value in both art and people: imperfection.
When I create, imperfection isn’t my typical muse, nor is it normally what I may strive for when taking on a project. And yet, to be tasked with creating something as close to my identity as art is, it’s difficult not to embrace the experiences which naturally fail me without bastardizing them.
I have often wondered how to grasp my wonder and woe of failing and making mistakes without feeling subordinate to the mistake itself. It is hard to stray from the frustration that occurs when something goes wrong, but it would be ambitious to think that creating is not just the arduous act of constantly revising and destroying faults made along the way.
Imperfection, however, is not always valued by those behind their creative works, myself included.
Because it’s terrifying to make a mistake in art.
It is even more terrifying to let the idea of mistakes morph into intrusive thinking – like ‘these mistakes are the essence of who I am as an artist.’
This is all to say that unfinished works – jagged edges, curved seams, and gaps in sweaters – have been denounced by society, braiding the parameters of perfect and imperfect art tight with barbed wire.
Growing up, failure and imperfection were homonyms. I grapple with creating imperfection by reasoning that art is defined by its risk, yet I still feel hesitation, trepidation even, around the risk of failure. These feelings of inadequacy have haunted my creative ego for years, and I am terrified of risking misinterpretation.
Critics grasp at the fumbling.
They point to the mis-drawings or missed opportunities, and in this tumultuous spotlight on mistakes (oftentimes labeled as “room for improvement”) the art begins to be portrayed not as what it is, but rather what it could be. It is through this amplified pressure to evade mistakes that my art feels as though it has become barred from imperfection.
From this external force I, as the artist, inevitably internalize this message, therefore straining myself to not crack under pressure – to avoid making mistakes. In these moments, I do not allow myself the space to revel in the risk of art; in fact, I steer myself in the complete opposite direction of it.
So what would happen in the scenario where I venture into new territory, look into a new vision: rejecting perfectionism?
What if I, in every situation, attempted to delve into imperfection? What would happen if I gave up the idea of perfect completion altogether, and instead focused strictly on making mistakes? How would my art change? How would I alter my understanding of those around me, or of the things I value?
Would I fall in love with the way my legs shake as I rise from a fall? Could the actualization of my wrongdoings in art begin to overshadow my moments of ecstasy when I finally get it right? How would failing inevitably be glamourized into a new trend, left to become romanticized and exhausted?I find that the anxiety I have scattered around the idea of failing and making imperfect art sinks further into myself, whether it be psychological or paradoxical, and it is in dire need of unpacking and destigmatizing. For starters, I tell myself this notion of failing is simple. It’s figuratively easy, and it is embedded in the steps that are used to climb towards ideals.
The anxiety clicks in – it is the empty feeling of ascending the ladder only to slip on the last rickety wooden rung, because once at the bottom, the top seems endlessly distant. This is an experience which terrifies me, and I know that this fear creates my anxiety and propels my evasion of failure. Still, I reason with myself that this gazing up towards something is important.
This renewal of perspective should not be a sensation that is always negative, for failing is not simply a negative thing; it is more than that. It is the fundamental foundation of empathy which I need in order to forge a strong relationship with my creative confidence.
As the pools of sweat, blood, and tears flood from the grueling process of materializing thoughts into tangible projects, the yielding imperfection should feel rewarding. It should be welcoming; it should hold me in the fits of frustration that form holes in my sweaters, or burn holes in my letters. It is meant to be refreshing – to see something not as what I want it to be, but as what it is. In wading through these waters of imperfection, there is no current, no push or pull in either direction; I am surrounded in serene white.
I have found that it is important, if not critical, to allow imperfection to seep into the creative process, for the creative process is essentially a means of experimentation – one that values the originality of art. There are aspects to my creative works wherein I see this reflected.
I remember there being obvious defects in my attempts to learn knitting. I missed stitches, got distracted in my counting, looped the wrong amount; but as I look again through new eyes, following each mistake, these defects become moments to leap off of. They become opportunities to adapt. For instance, in one of my hats, my stitching got pulled too tight on the sides and broke near the top. I felt a frown grow on my face, then fingered the opening where the string fell limp where it once was taught. I began my revisions. I searched through my craft drawer, and after finding some pink felt, I stitched into the empty space. When I finished sewing, a rather large smile replaced my frown. I was overjoyed with the product, which was the mere result of a once-dreaded accident. What was originally a failure on my part became one of my favorite things about the hat. This newfound resolution formed into something that now represents me as an extension of my creative essence. When I wear it, I am inherently Leah, with an insistently Leah hat, for the process and product are unique and individual to me. I learned through reflection of my mistake that accidents actually contribute to the “perfection” of a completed project - just as the imperfections in my self contribute to my own whole perfection. This realization fascinates me, draws me to what I once avoided and resented, as I now find mistakes inherent to the identity of the artistry behind art.In writing, in creating works of art, fashion, and in my process of working with fiber, I found that I often enjoy being messy over being “proper.”
There is glee and a feeling of limitlessness in being messy. It knows no boundaries, abides to no construct of right or wrong; it is simply the formulation of creativity in its most raw form.
I am risking something when I am looking at a failed project with new eyes, and I am sacrificing another thing by destroying it with a new project layered over.
But it is in this sacrifice that my artistic rapture finds its home.
The surrender, the sacrifice, and the yielding is the ecstasy of my artistry, and it all begins with a mistake, a failure, a beautiful imperfection.
As I graduated the beginning phases of learning crochet, I came to a wild epiphany: Failure is necessary for good projects. Ever since, I embrace it in all of my projects, and I would even go so far as to say I beckon for failure, as important lessons will not always come easily, nor will the layers of identity that form from trusting yourself to make it right. So I ask you, beg you even, to fail. Fail if you can, and when you can, and let these failures exist there, if only briefly, as mistakes – as imperfections – as what they are. Sit with them, hold them close to you, see them for as they are, not what they could have been. When the time is right you will destroy them. Fail, and destroy your art, before it begins to destroy you.
Do you have it in you?