A few months ago, I took a pottery class. I'm not hugely interested in pottery, but was interested enough to give the wheel a whirl. I began the class looking forward to an artistic pursuit where I could make mistakes and not worry too much about them. I consciously went in without my perfectionist tendencies. I was liberated!
My detachment made me look at everything with a new set of eyes. The other students (all women) had taken the class once before. They were extraordinarily critical of their work. Every microscopic flaw was a tragedy. Nothing was "even" or "balanced" or "symmetrical." Everything shrank too much, was too heavy, turned out the wrong color. Everything was a disappointment.
I was impressed by their work. To me, the lovely vessels looked like they had been made by human hands. I didn't see what others deemed "flaws."
No one seemed to feel any pleasure in what they were creating.
I've always been my own worst enemy, the person who sees nothing as "good enough." That's a big part of why I stopped writing; I was always drowning in the possibility of better titles, more striking images, perfect turns of phrase.
Another problem: everyone was very comfortable touching ("improving") my work. Sitting at the wheel, I got a lot of "oh, you just have to raise this part of your cylinder" as they guided my hands. Or they would sit down at my wheel, and ask "may I fix this?"
I hadn't asked for help.
At first, I thought these attentions were a necessary part of the learning process. But I wasn't learning. I was getting angry.
I suppose it's similar to what happens in a writing workshop -- "I would change this line" -- but guiding my hands wasn't criticism of a finished project. It was an unsettling alteration of a work in progress. It also crossed a physical boundary I wasn't comfortable with.
Not to be outdone, I also found myself jumping on the self-criticism bandwagon. As the newest student, I had the most to criticize. And it was rather comforting to complain -- because it was familiar. It made me part of the group. And my work really wasn't very good. In fact, it was pretty bad...
(See how that downward spiral starts?)
After several weeks, I decided to stop. I wasn't enjoying pottery-making, so I walked away from the negativity.
Was the class a waste? Absolutely not.
For the first time, I saw myself flexibly distorted in a fun-house mirror, didn't like the vision, and took the mirror down.
I used to think that the mirror reflected reality.
I was impressed by their work. To me, the lovely vessels looked like they had been made by human hands. I didn't see what others deemed "flaws."
No one seemed to feel any pleasure in what they were creating.
I've always been my own worst enemy, the person who sees nothing as "good enough." That's a big part of why I stopped writing; I was always drowning in the possibility of better titles, more striking images, perfect turns of phrase.
Another problem: everyone was very comfortable touching ("improving") my work. Sitting at the wheel, I got a lot of "oh, you just have to raise this part of your cylinder" as they guided my hands. Or they would sit down at my wheel, and ask "may I fix this?"
I hadn't asked for help.
At first, I thought these attentions were a necessary part of the learning process. But I wasn't learning. I was getting angry.
I suppose it's similar to what happens in a writing workshop -- "I would change this line" -- but guiding my hands wasn't criticism of a finished project. It was an unsettling alteration of a work in progress. It also crossed a physical boundary I wasn't comfortable with.
Not to be outdone, I also found myself jumping on the self-criticism bandwagon. As the newest student, I had the most to criticize. And it was rather comforting to complain -- because it was familiar. It made me part of the group. And my work really wasn't very good. In fact, it was pretty bad...
(See how that downward spiral starts?)
After several weeks, I decided to stop. I wasn't enjoying pottery-making, so I walked away from the negativity.
Was the class a waste? Absolutely not.
For the first time, I saw myself flexibly distorted in a fun-house mirror, didn't like the vision, and took the mirror down.
I used to think that the mirror reflected reality.
