The Fredösphere

I'm enjoying reading Art & Fear, an extended essay for under-motivated creators, and the source of the 50-pot anecdote I referenced a while back.  The book is for those artists whose self-criticism has become neurotic and paralyzing.  I'm not in that category now, nor am I usually (for whatever reason). Although I rarely have a problem generating ideas or making decisions, my pace is slow.  Essentially, I'm a procrastinator, a closely related category.  It's good to understand the problem, which is a crisis of courage:

ART IS MADE BY ORDINARY PEOPLE.  Creatures having only virtues can hardly be imagined making art.  It's difficult to picture the Virgin Mary painting landscapes.  Or Batman throwing pots.  The flawless creature wouldn't need to make art.  And so, ironically, the ideal artist is scarcely a theoretical figure at all.

... and ...

Imagination is in control when you begin making an object.  The artwork's potential is never higher than in that magic moment when the first brush stroke is applied, the first chord struck.  But as the piece grows, technique and craft take over, and imagination becomes a less useful tool.  A piece grows by becoming specific.  The moment Herman Melville penned the opening line, "Call me Ishmael", one actual story -- Moby Dick -- began to separate itself from a multitude of imaginable others.

The irony is that, to the outsider's point of view, a work of art grows as it is created, but to the artist's, it shrinks -- and that is painful.

How ironic that the most talented artists are often the least confident.  You could even say the best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.

Another irony:  the very week I start reading Art & Fear, Michael Blowhard found a Chesterton quote making a remarkably similar point.