Taming the Obstacle

Lately I've been thinking about obstacles within. I know I spend my time stupidly, and then am angry with myself that I haven't produced any paintings or filed enough job applications.

So, I've been thinking about why I let myself putter instead of being more industrious.

A friend and I recently discussed a mutual acquaintance, a very talented artist who produces scant work. I don't know him well, but two friends know him intimately. He appears to be hindered by a desire to create perfection. His expectations are so high it is unlikely that he will meet them. Therefore, he doesn't attempt to create anything.

As we discussed this, I recognized some of the sentiment in myself. It is something I have struggled against in my own art practice.

Conversely, I am a non-writer who is able to maintain a fairly robust blog. It is riddled with imperfection, but I can live with it because it isn't precious to me. And unlike my paintings which have a small audience I care about, I don't really expect anyone to read my blog.

This idea led me to ponder the increasing disposable nature of writing. I recall as a child thinking that writing was a permanent enterprise. Any assigned report invoked writers block as I imagined the improbability that I would produce something worthy of gold embossed leather binding.

Today I wondered where this notion emerged. It may have been my own twisted invention based on popular culture's output about writers and their work. As crazy as it sounds, my mother may also have facilitated it. Many people keep copies of their school work, but she is the only person I know who reads it and regards it highly.

This morning I read yet another essay about the demise of print publishing. While I prefer to read any text on paper because I find a lit display mildly distracting (resulting in less careful reading), I acknowledge the merits of a paperless world.

The world is fluxuating continuously, yet writing in books seemed fixed. Hence, reprints and multiple editions with revised forwards. Now that writing is lifted from the permanence of bound paper, it becomes a fluid stream of text. Much in this stream is carelessly formed and read with little regard. Most of it is not intended for posterity.

As an amateur writer I take comfort in the disregard for and disposable nature of the modern writing platform. The medium now reflects art making; a process that happens over time.

So I conclude that the goal is to just do whatever I need to do without considering outcome.

As I write this several literary allusions I can barely grasp emerge in my mind. I recall some Chinese and Indian philosophy emphasizing action without concern for result. A notion that confused me at the time. It struck me as a call for aimless action.

In the West, Voltaire's characters in Candide recommended that we tend the garden. I suppose it should be tended without expectations of yield, but just worked thoughtfully.