I have a confession to make.

I have a confession to make: half the time I'm making art, I have no idea what I'm doing or if my ideas will even work. I'm winging it. But there's a good reason for that although it sounds contradictory: I know what I'm doing.

One of the hardest lessons I've had to learn was to break away from the myth of perfection. It's what makes an artist terrified of laying down that first brush stroke on a pristine white canvas. We get overwhelmed by what we want to create - we can see the completed masterpiece in our mind's eye - but the steps involved in getting there are daunting. What if it doesn't turn out the way I envisioned? What if I end up wasting another canvas? Those wasted canvases add up! The anxiety and stress is no joke.

I can't remember the exact moment I had the epiphany every teacher wants their student to experience: that if you just do the work, whether the piece ends up being a success or not, you will learn something. You'll learn a new skill, but more importantly, you'll learn about how you learn. I had to learn the difference between regular practice and focused practice. It wasn't until around 2012 that I took a focused approach to my art. I realized I wasn't drawing at the level that I wanted to - the level I believed I was capable of. I tried out different drawing techniques to find what resonated with me, and when I found it, I focused on just that. I wasn't trying to sell any work - I just needed to learn this all-important foundational skill. That entire time, I only worked in graphite or charcoal and I stayed away from any kind of colors or painting. It took me about five years to get to a point where I felt like I had some mastery of my materials, how to see, and how to translate what I saw onto paper. It wasn't until I reached that point that I realized I didn't understand how color worked. That was the next five years, learning about pigments and how to work in oil and watercolor. Whenever I would go to our local drawing group, I made sure to choose ahead of time which sketchbook and materials I would work with, and what my focus would be. Would I stick to graphite? Would I work on drawing the entire body or just the hands? Am I trying to get better at drawing faster or seeing more nuance in values? The clearer I was about my goals for that practice session, the better my evening would go.

Being able to harness my own strengths and weaknesses into my art practice like that has been a real game-changer. Learning to draw taught me how to observe the way I learn and problem solve. Learning watercolor taught me patience (you cannot rush water). Now, as I work with fiber art and mixed media, I've been able to apply those skills to experimentation.

Rose-colored Glasses, 2024, capiz, caribou horn, Swarovski crystals, carved beads, ribbon rosettes, floral wire. Available for purchase.

Patience, a deep understanding of my materials, and faith in the skills I've picked up over the years have taught me that I'll be able to solve just about any dilemma I face when constructing an artwork. I often tell my students that this is what artists do: we problem solve. When I wanted to create Rose-colored Glasses, I had a vague idea of what I was going for and what materials I needed. I'd never worked with horn before, nor had I ever carved a pair of eyeglass frames. Are they perfect? No, but I had a blast learning how to cut, carved, and polish horn, and I definitely want to make a few more pairs. These are even hinged and somewhat wearable. (I don't recommend wearing them, though.)

It's incredibly empowering to be okay with mistakes and failure, and to be able to embrace discomfort. I just wish I had learned that earlier in life. Do I like it when a work in progress is a failure? Heck no, but I can treat discomfort and failure like my closest friends: they'll always be honest with me when I need it, and I have to give them due credit for getting me to this point where I can create freely.