The Year I Started Making Art for Me Again
Written by Kelsey Vickers. Graphic by Laura Garcia Gomez.
By the end of spring quarter last school year, I was burnt out. It affected more than my writing. I was completely depleted of creativity. I barely even consumed art. I threw myself into my part-time job and “Love Island,” waiting for something to spark my interest.
My burnout eventually lifted, but I found it was a veil over my fear of failure. The prospect of imperfection paralyzed me. I’ve always hated how my art is recognizably mine. It’s an ugliness only self-acceptance could beautify. I comply with all suggestions during class critique, regardless of whether I agree or not. I’d do anything to erase the quality that betrays its creator.
I had written a list of creative pursuits to fill my summer. The blank circles devoid of checkmarks taunted me. Class deadlines halt my avoidant tendencies, but without them I lack motivation. In July, I read the list for the 31st time, and I was fed up.
“Make suncatcher” seemed like the least intimidating option. My dad had the tools, and thanks to my teenage jewelry-making phase, I didn’t need a tutorial. I set out for materials and got to work.
I quickly fell into a rhythm as the wire bent with the turn of my wrist. I made spirals, diamonds and hooks to link each bead together. I carefully balanced the ratio of the shimmering shades of blue and green with the wire. The color palette brought my sea glass collection to mind. My mother taught me how to find it five years ago, and I have been building it in her company ever since. Now it can be put to use.
I shared my idea with my boyfriend and he joined me the next day. His mother taught us how to drill holes in the sea glass with a Dremel. We worked on our respective suncatchers together for countless hours.
It was freeing to change course because I wanted to, rather than to fit a certain criterion. My confidence grew with each completed segment: tangible products of my labor. No blending of brushstrokes or tiny stitches could minimize the amount of effort and time that went into creating it.
I spent the rest of July travelling. I returned to my creative to-do list inspired by my keepsakes, embroidered t-shirts. I’ve wanted to upcycle my clothes since I was a fearful teen. I took a leap of faith and picked a tank top I liked. I sewed and embroidered a dragonfly using my sister’s old swimsuit and some thread. The wings aren’t aligned and it isn’t anatomically correct, but my inspirations weren’t perfect either. They just didn’t look like I made them.
My jeans had room for improvement, so I turned to my sewing kit once again. I sewed some leftover fabric to the pockets intermittently over two months. Determined to feel pride in this piece too, I resewed one pocket four times. Now, when I’m bored with an item, instead of sending it to Goodwill, I trust myself to make it new again.
I decided to revitalize my room as well and create a gallery wall. I wanted to include a tapestry, but having thrown away the one I made in the past, I had to start anew. My grandmother taught me how to weave when I was sixteen, and I consulted her again to jog my memory. With her collection of yarn and spare loom, she spent an afternoon reteaching me. I didn’t finish my tapestry, but it’s patiently waiting for me to return to it this winter.
My art is a testament to my dedication. It memorializes my loved ones and my past selves. I didn’t make my art unbeautiful; the shame and doubt I harbored within it did. I want to be seen in my work, including the parts of me I prefer to keep tucked away.
