Never feel guilty

about making art

& other essays

by Danny Gregory

Introduction 2
Who stopped you? 3
One day ain’t coming. 5
Watch yourself. 8
Let’s make this easy. 10
Never feel guilty about making art. 12

 NEVER FEEL GUILTY ABOUT MAKING ART | GREGORY

Introduction

This little book is a somewhat random selection of some of the

essays I’ve written over the past year.
I love to write. And for the past twenty years, I’ve been writing about
the creative process. What it means to be a creative person. Why we
struggle with creating. How to come up with ideas and what to do with
them.
Some of those thoughts end up in my books (I’ve written a dozen or
so). But a lot of them are more immediate and I want to share them with
you right away, without waiting to fell trees and smear them with ink.
Hence, this thing you just signed up for.
Every Friday, I send you ideas to ponder. Advice I’ve given readers.
Cool stuff I’ve found. Problems I think I’ve solved.
My goal is to help you take more risks, creative ones. To expand how
you think about what you make (or don’t make). To prod, provoke, and
lightly entertain you.

I hope they’re helpful.

Your pal,
Danny Gregory
                                                                                                    

P.S. I often write a little postscript on my emails. Like this one. They
are usually funny or smart or odd. So make sure you read all the way
through.
                                                                                                    

P.P.S If you ever want to reply to any of my essays, please do. I'd love
to know what you are thinking and I promise to read it.

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 NEVER FEEL GUILTY ABOUT MAKING ART | GREGORY

Who stopped you?

Here’s a story I hear over and over.

A child loved to draw and paint but then some adult, a family member
or teacher, was overheard saying, “too bad she doesn’t have any
talent.”
Or a young man applies for a writing program but gets rejected.
Or gets bad grades or dismissive comments.
A parent forbids a teenager to apply to art school, saying it’s an
impractical, self-indulgent waste of money.
Another says,“no one in our family has any musical talent.”
I am always amazed that any adult would behave this way with a
child.
I assume they are driven by demons of their own.
I would never be so discouraging and assume you wouldn't either.
What should we do instead?
Can we seek ways to be encouraging to young artists?
Can we offer praise, advice, support?
Fund scholarships?

Here's another thought: can you encourage the discouraged child —

in you?
The wounded artist who never got support and encouragement but
could still use it ?
Could you buy her some art supplies, let her take a class, make a
place for her in your home and time in your day to make art, to let her
grow and develop?
Tell her she has potential, share her work with the world?
What could you do to support a young artist?

                                                                               

P. S. As you may have noticed, today's essay arrived late. When I

explain the circumstances of its construction, I've little doubt you'll

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 NEVER FEEL GUILTY ABOUT MAKING ART | GREGORY

forgive me. Typically, I adhere rigorously to a specific writing routine. A

large number of my oldest friends and new acquaintances arrive at the
studio in the later evening hours each Thursday (or ‘Little Friday’ as we
like to call it). They usually include a clown troupe from Albuquerque,
identical Apache cousins from the rez, a microneurosurgeon from the
Broderick Clinic, my fencing instructor, a one-eyed ironmonger, an
Argentine taxidermist named Otto, and my bookie with the rapier wit.
We pull long tables of rough-hewn planks into the courtyard and light
long amber tallows set in antler candelabra. As I stroke my beard and
consider my topic, someone will usually pulls out a balalaika, a zither or
two, a Theremin, a washboard, and get down to some of the old songs.
While I peck at my Smith-Corona, the company crunches crusty loaves
slathered in aged gorgonzola, glugs down earthenware jugs of retsina,
and pulls on slim, dark cigars hand-rolled by a dear pal in Manila. When
the rosy fingers of dawn creep over the tower of the Biltmore School, I
type my final revision and hit ‘send’ then celebrate with heaping bowls
of overnight oats and calisthenics. However this week, I deviated from
my routine and failed you. To be honest, we were sidetracked by the
ever-gripping Winter Olympics, distracted by the live broadcast of the
snowshoe torchlight relay and the finals of the scimitar toss. I can only
hope that you also stayed up late for that drawn-out final quarter of the
freestyle ice sculpting match and can understand when I report that I
woke up this morning on the stone tiles, head pounding from too much
ouzo and paprika, and realized that, for the first time ever, I had passed
out before hitting ‘send.’ I’ll hit it now, then wait, breath bated, to see if
you unsubscribe in disgust.

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 NEVER FEEL GUILTY ABOUT MAKING ART | GREGORY

One day ain’t coming.

This morning, wallowing in the hot tub, I read E.B. White’s essay “A
Report in Spring” in which he acquires a new dachshund puppy. The
third paragraph jarred me:
“…this was our first adoption case in which there was a strong
likelihood that the dog would survive the man. It had always been
the other way round.”
Outlived by a Weiner dog.
It could happen to you, even if you’re young at heart.

I, too have a finite amount of time left.

It might be decades. It might be an afternoon.
But my days are numbered. And so are yours.

Do this calculus.
How long did your parents live? Your grandparents? Average and add
five years. Then subtract a decade for decrepitude.
By my calculation, I have 15 good years left to enjoy.
Unless I step in the way of a bus. Or a virus.
Not bad.
Fifteen years - a good lifespan for a dog.
Am I making the most of all of them? No, Monday was a complete
write-off.
But I do try to read decent books, play with Twiglet, eat good food,
and make stuff every day.

How are you doing with your portion of days?

Still waiting for “one day”?
One day when you’ll learn French. Visit Rio. Make up with your
brother.
One day when you’ll write your novel. Organize the basement. Plant

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 NEVER FEEL GUILTY ABOUT MAKING ART | GREGORY

roses. Learn to draw.

I have 780 more weekends.

180 more full moons.
Fifteen more chances to get my wife’s birthday right.
I'd like to mark each one off with a satisfied X.

What have you been putting off?

And have you thought about how much longer you can afford to?

                                                                               

P.S. People have been writing to tell me they enjoy reading my

postscripts, often more than reading the essay itself. Which, being
somewhat of an empath, makes me feel bad for the essay and annoyed
by the smug satisfaction of the postscript with its many fans. Maybe the
essay comes off as too prim, too quick to lecture you on how to live and
think, while the postscript is more like the yummy dessert you chomped
through your vegetable to get to. My late wife Patti would often order
dessert first when we went out for a big dinner. She complained that by
the time she got through her entree, she was usually too full to eat
profiteroles or German chocolate cake or a slice of key lime pie. To hell
with it, she'd say, I'll start with the brownie. Waiters loved it. Maybe
you're self-indulgent that way, too, scrolling down here to the end of the
email to have a nosh before taking a deep sigh and trudging back up to
the top for the sermon. I sometimes wonder how I ever got into this
advice business anyway. I'm certainly not a shining paragon of much —
certainly not to my dental hygienist or my mother, who complains I
never call. I try to summon the best of myself when I write to you, but the
postscript knows the real me. The me that doesn't draw as much as he
should, who is curt when he's stressed, who leaves the lid up. The me
that should take more of his own advice. I think I must be writing these
essays for me, trying to give myself a pep talk that will propel me into
doing better work, living a better life, being my best self. And maybe the

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 NEVER FEEL GUILTY ABOUT MAKING ART | GREGORY

postscript is just my id, unfettered, waving for the dessert menu. If so,
I'm better off with both. Y'know, it feels a bit like the essay is creeping
into this particular postscript, imposing order, pointing out the moral,
turning some fun into broccoli. I think, next week, I'll just start with the
postscript and see if I have room after for an essay.

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 NEVER FEEL GUILTY ABOUT MAKING ART | GREGORY

Watch yourself.

Here’s an idea that will revolutionize your art making. Start to do a

drawing and see if a part of you can observe the part of you that is doing
the drawing.

What are the decisions you’re making? How are you holding the pen?
How much time are you spending looking at your subject versus the
time you’re spending drawing? Are you working on one part of the
drawing and then jumping to another? When are you getting bored,
distracted? When does the monkey start to show up? And so on..

Keep this observation up for 10 or 15 minutes and really see how it is

you draw. Don’t judge whether it is right or not. Don’t try to change your
process as you observe it. When you’re done, write down some of the
things that you saw. Think about these observations and what they are
revealing about your approach to drawing.

Focus less on the results, the piece of paper, and more on the
process, the act of making lines.

What is going on in your mind, what is going on in your body, how has
it been moving, what is your process?

Allow the experience to be relaxing and flowing. It can so calming to

just quietly calmly observe without judgment. Enjoy that and let it flow.

It’ll probably be apparent from this observation what changes you

could make to your process. Think about some of the results that you
would like and imagine, not in words but in feelings, and feelings in your
body, what those changes might feel like.

Now that you know some of the changes you’d like to meet, and
you’ve experimented with trying to feel those changes, look for

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 NEVER FEEL GUILTY ABOUT MAKING ART | GREGORY

examples of artists, particularly those in the Sketchbook Skool faculty

who seem to have those qualities that you aspire to. Perhaps it’s more
consistent crosshatching or a more expressive line, or a more realistic
style, or better use of color.

Now go and watch those artists as they work.

Watch their demonstrations several times else. Don’t feel like you
have to intellectualize or even verbalize what they are doing. Simply
watch it as an indication of the way they are feeling, their physicality,
their approach and allow it all to soak into youa.

Watch it like a baby studies her parents. Over and over, until it
become part of who you are.

Experiment with different physical feelings as you draw. Try drawing

long bold lines. Try doing small very tight and precise squares. Hatch
lines from left to right then right to left. Experiment with blind contours
and allow your eyes and your hands to work in tandem rather than
course correcting each other.

Drawing is a physical activity.

You need to train your body and your brain  need to trust what your
body inately  knows how to do. Allow yourself to feel the flow, the natural
movement your hands want to make —  the more you do that, the more
you repeat this exercise, the smoother and more confident this
mechanism will become. Avoid judging and correcting or your efforts
will be so self-conscious you will trip over yourself.

Don’t judge, don’t worry, don’t think. Feel and draw.

I promise, it will change the game.

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 NEVER FEEL GUILTY ABOUT MAKING ART | GREGORY

Let’s make this easy.

Five hundred years ago, Martin Luther came up with the idea that
working super-hard, being super-disciplined and frugal was every
person’s duty to God.
The Protestant work ethic. Heard of it?
Even if you haven’t, it’s now baked into the marrow of the USA and by
extension, most of the rest of the modern world.
If you want it to be good, it’s got to be hard. (Thanks, Marty).

I wasn’t raised a Protestant. Nor was my grandfather.

He would say, “Jews always have to try harder.” Get better grades,
come in earlier, work later. He would mutter that if someone was
successful, chances were they had some inside track, some angle that
got them into the winners circle. Meanwhile the Jews were beset from
all sides, never given a fair shake, forced to try three times as hard.
This didn’t just mean that if you wanted to do something well, you
had to work harder. It also meant the converse: if you didn’t work harder,
it wasn’t good.

Maybe your family isn’t Jewish or Protestant. Maybe you’re Korean

or Indian or Chinese or Black or LGBT. Maybe you’re disabled. Or a
senior citizen. Or a woman. Or a victim of child abuse. Or several of the
above.
We drive ourselves. We work harder. We show up more. We fear
criticism. We never take our positions for granted. We fear it could all be
taken away.
My grandfather, despite his success as a doctor, buried his wealth in
gold, in mattresses, in Swiss bank accounts. You never know. The
paranoid survive.
We are risk averse. Even small failures can seem like existential
threats. We are perfectionists because we don’t want do it wrong. To let
the wolves see us stumble.
We live in a culture of internet fame, of likes and dislikes, of

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 NEVER FEEL GUILTY ABOUT MAKING ART | GREGORY

anonymous trolls, of 8 billion potential critics.

So we find it harder and harder to take pride in our many
accomplishments. To feel the joy we’ve earned. We shrink from
counting our chickens and our blessings.

But is the wolf actually still at the door? The Cossacks? The landlord?
The storm troopers? The Dust Bowl? A wrathful god? Your third grade
art teacher? Your long-dead stepfather? The Virus?
Or is the threat still mainly within our heads?
What if we were willing — even if only now and then — to let it be
easy?
To let art-making be easy. To let life be easy. To let weekends, and
vacations, and relationships be easy. To release expectations. To
forsake outcomes. To drop our guards. What could happen?
Think about the things you’ve always wanted to do. What’s holding
you back? Is it because they’re too hard? Is it because you haven’t the
talent or wherewith all? Is it because you aren’t willing to do the work?
Ask yourself. How could it be easy ?
                                                                               

P.S. It would have been easy to write a snappy postscript to this

essay. So I didn't.

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 NEVER FEEL GUILTY ABOUT MAKING ART | GREGORY

Never feel guilty about making art.

I’m surprised by how often I hear about guilt from aspiring artists.
People tell me they feel guilty about spending (or wasting) their time
on making art.
Guilty that they’re spending money on art supplies and classes.
Guilty that they never use these supplies or complete those classes.
Guilty that they’re wasting time on something that they’re not good
at.
Guilty that their art isn’t bringing in any income.
Guilty that they’re spending time they should be devoting to their
family, chores, work…

All that guilt is getting in the way of so many artists developing and
enjoying the process of making their art.
It’s the monkey voice in your head, that inner critic at work doing
serious damage.
It’s time to discuss this and put that guilt behind us.

Let’s begin with an established fact: Making art is a valuable and

healthy way to spend our time. It’s as much a productive pastime as
reading social media posts or watching bad TV or scrolling through
sports scores — probably more so.
Art making brings beauty into our lives.
It gives us a sense of adventure and accomplishment.
It connects us with other people.
It shows us how to see the world with fresh eyes.
It’s an opportunity for life-long learning and development

Art is good for our bodies and brains too.

It’s been scientifically proven to reduce stress. (Even lousy art).
As you practice drawing, or even just intently watch someone else do
it, you build new neurological connections. You fight cognitive decline.
The list goes on.

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 NEVER FEEL GUILTY ABOUT MAKING ART | GREGORY

Making art is as valid and healthy a way to spend your time as

exercising or reading or cooking nutritious food.
Do you feel guilty about doing any of those things?

We worry endlessly that making art deprives our loved ones and our
employers. That sitting down to draw means you aren’t doing right by
your family, leaving them without cooked dinners or made beds.
But art is something you need to do for you. It’s a form of self-care.
Self-care is about your physical, mental, emotional and spiritual well-
being. And there’s nothing self-indulgent or selfish about that. (After
all, selfish people dont worry about being selfish).
Caring for yourself is essential and non-negotiable.
It’s not the same as luxury and pampering. It’s not an indulgence or a
someday activity.
It’s a part of living consciously and well.
Of fighting burn-out and stress-related disease.
Of recharging your battery, filling your cup, of living life fully.

Here’s another fact: Choosing yourself is not wrong. It’s essential to

doing your best for others too.
It’s like that old airplane safety message: Put on your own oxygen
mask first before helping others.
Art-making isn’t a zero sum game. Taking time for you doesn’t mean
taking time way for others. That’s not how it works.
The longer you go without spending some time on yourself, the more
exhaustion will set in, resentment will fester, and eventually you’ll have
nothing left to give — to anyone.
When you’re in the zone making art, you don’t feel exhausted.
You feel energized. You learn to feel calm under pressure. You
increase your ability to focus.
These all skills that will help you be there for your other
responsibilities, rather than feeling worn out or put upon.

The art you make doesn’t need to be perfect. It doesn’t even have to

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 NEVER FEEL GUILTY ABOUT MAKING ART | GREGORY

be good.
Our society has such a twisted view of what art’s purpose is. We see it
as a commodity to be bought and sold. We see artists as dreamers and
freaks.
And no matter how much the creative urge burns with in us, we feel
ashamed of it. And when we feel like we are failing at art, we feel even
worse.
We tell ourselves that we need to figure out a way to make money
from our art and that only sales and exhibitions will make it a legitimate
endeavor.
Our inner critics scrutinize every mark we make like venomous Simon
Cowells. We harass and victimize our creative impulses until they are
squelched.
But making art is mainly about making. It’s a process, a game, a state
of being. Society may insist on evaluating only on the results.
But that’s not your problem.

You don’t have to do this alone.

Tell your loved ones what making art means to you. How important it
is to your well-being. How you don’t want to feel burned-out and
depleted.
Enlist their help in fighting your guilt. Allow them to encourage you
to do what you need to do, to keep you accountable for making time for
what you love to do.
And ask them to join you. Draw with your kids. Paint with your
spouse. Make stuff with your friends.
You’ll all love it.

If you don’t get cooperation, then it’s time to set some boundaries.
After all, your time is yours. You own it. It’s finite and you get to choose
how to spend what you have left.
Learn to say no to others now and then, so you can say yes to
yourself. Boundaries let you maintain your priorities and ensure your
well-being. They help you respect yourself.

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 NEVER FEEL GUILTY ABOUT MAKING ART | GREGORY

You deserve respect.

Book artists dates with yourself. Schedule iron-clad slots on your

calendar to work on your art, to go to museums, to take classes. Make it
clear to others and yourself that these are not negotiable.
Expand your community to include other artists. Join clubs, find
like-minded people on-line. Allow them to keep you accountable to
yourself, to keep showing up for you and your art.

Remember, this is essential stuff.

It doesn’t go at the end of your to-do list, after you’ve done all your
“real” work, after everyone else is taken care of.
It’s not a reward for doing all your chores. Self care and creativity
have to be a high priority.

Most importantly, be there for yourself.

Instead of making yourself feel guilty, think of what you’d say to a
friend in a similar situation. You’d tell them how great they are, how
capable they are, how much they already do for others, how much you
admire and love them.
Don’t you deserve the same support and kindness?

                                                                               

P.S. Please share this ebook. And encourage people to sign up for
more at dannysessays.com. It’s free.

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