When we first wish to become artists, it’s usually because we are inspired by the art of others. We see, play, read, and a spark is ignited, and we want more – not just more of the world they have provided us, but more of the process that created that world, to touch the infinite manifold of alternate universes that they passed over to arrive at the one they created, curated, presented. We want to be the one to ignite that spark for someone else, to be links in the chain that hold up the worlds of imagination.
In this regard, envy is a helpful tool for beginning the artistic journey, but becomes increasingly less so for continuing it. The further we progress under our own power, the more we come to understand our own strengths and weaknesses, the less benefit we can derive from wishing we had the strengths of others – after all, if it was just that easy for us we’d probably already be there. If, after years of thought and practice, you’re still very far from a certain style of creation, it’s probably not that you’re incompetent or that they’re years beyond you in skill, but just that this style of creation is not one that comes nearly as easily to you. This is going to be the case for a lot of things, sadly: Sometimes the kind of art we find most interesting is not the kind that we create most readily.
This wall is not unclimbable. If it’s important to you, really important to you, you can figure out a way to create in another person’s style – or at least a near enough approximation to provide some degree of creative satisfaction. Learning this whole new approach, though, takes time and energy – time and energy you could be spending on something else, on developing your own style further, on finding art that’s closer to your own expressive style to build off of, or in just working faster and without worry on your own projects.
I wonder why I keep finding myself in this position of wanting to make others work my own. I wonder why I’m not enough for me, and must keep hungering for more outside. It’s wise to understand that there’s more that can be done than you are doing, but this need to take, to conquer, to consume, is disrespectful both to myself and to those whom I envy – to myself because it diminishes the validity of my own aesthetic and sense of art, to others because it imagines their capacity for creation to be separable from their being in a way that it is not. That which we make is inseparable from that which we are.
I don’t know if every artist feels this way. Is it more common among men, those who are taught that their calling is to take and to conquer? Is it more common within colonial nations, those who are taught that resources in the hands of others are by definition being misused and must be appropriated? Or is the grass just always greener for everyone, no matter how green it gets or how seasoned we become? This perspective may be harmful in other ways – to seek conquest and control when instead I can be passive, seeing and perceiving without need for complete understanding. I can, rather than seeking to acquire some essence, regard everything I observe of other peoples creations as an expansion of the possibility space – not an edict, not something which must be done, but a suggestion, an idea, something that could be done if the need arises. A new component, a new word in my vocabulary, a new possibility…
My frustration is perhaps exacerbated because I’m actually terrible at intentionally copying the style of others. I can integrate small elements, bits of ideas and aesthetic here and there, but the end result is completely different. This is actually a relief in many ways, since it means even if I shamelessly steal the end result is usually unrecognizable – but it also means that, if my goal is emulation, it will remain forever out of my reach. It may be time to embrace that. It may be wise to make a home on the mountain rather than try to climb it forever, to seek to do what I do best to the greatest extent of my ability – rather than to aspire to somehow attach what other people do to what I do and combine them into something bigger, something bolder, something more important, something more forever.
The problem is the belief that more and more correct is achievable and desirable – the belief that, if I can take someone else’s approach and unify it with my own, I will have achieved something greater than either. I’m not actually sure that it can work that way. There’s always a line being walked: The line between wishing you were making and wishing to have made, wishing you were doing and wishing to have done, the line between wishing you could see and wishing to be seen. The process of creation lies upon that line, held taut in place between conflicting yearning. I want to be free to create, free from the tyranny of standards and judgment I inflict upon myself. I want to be free to aspire, unbound by the limits of my capability, of what I know I can do. These wants hold me upright, pull me, push me, hurt me, and let me work. The uncertainty and discomfort is where the artists live, the impossible and unbreathable vacuum between what is and what might yet be.