intentional amateurism & transcendent growth

*One of my early tiny little sketchbook sketches.*

Several years ago, I watched a documentary film on creativity. The documentary was mildly interesting, but one of the interview subjects said something that I thought was particularly striking. He was discussing what part failure has played in his success as a writer, and while, predictably, he said that he’d failed more times in life than he could remember, he said something more. He said that to be creative, you have to be willing to fail. In his mind, you needed not only to accept that failure is part of creativity, but actually have the courage to walk into whatever creative practice you wanted to master, knowing full well that you are going to fail, and do so without a shred of embarrassment or self-consciousness about it. You have to go into it with a learner’s mind: being sure that what you’re doing isn’t going to work, but with an experimentation mindset, and assume that in the end, you’ll learn something new that will help you improve.

I had the opportunity to practice a little over 5 years ago, Christmas 2019. Marcus bought me a tiny little sketchbook as a stocking stuffer, and I began a daily sketch practice that I kept up for almost a year — a sort of calming practice through a particularly challenging time, when the pandemic that was taking over the globe. I cannot stress enough how out-of-character this was for me. Up until that year, I held a deep-seated belief that I could. not. draw. I’ve never taken a drawing class in my life, save for a year of drafting in engineering school — and there are so many tools like straight-edges and protractors and triangles in drafting, that while I became proficient in engineering drawing, I still believed deeply that I was missing the sketch gene. “You’re like me,” my mother would say when I was younger. “Your dad can draw, but I can’t draw. But at least you’re good at math.”

But there’s something about being given that little sketch book that gave me permission to fail. I would’ve never bought a sketchbook for myself (even with all the years of journaling under my belt!), but having been given the sketchbook, well — I had to use it, right? So I went into this practice fully intending to make truly horrible art, but deciding it might be worth it, if only to learn how watercolour paints move, and if certain approaches looked better than other approaches. My only rule for myself was that I had to freehand everything — no relying on the T-squares and straight-edges and protractors of engineering school; I simply had to eyeball everything I drew. (My daughter Alex, who is a talented artist, told me: “Just sketch everything with a pencil and eraser until you like what you’ve done, and then paint it, and then outline it with pen.” I took this advice to heart, and it’s how I’ve drawn everything since.) I intended to simply draw things I found around the house, but sometimes I used photographs I’d taken in the past as references. My only goal is to see if I can sketch a likeness of whatever is in front of me. And by the way, I had absolutely no intention of sharing anything I drew with anyone — it was purely an experimental, meditative practice that I did while binging a Netflix show, or to winding down my weekdays. I didn’t even expect improvement, honestly — the most I was going for was enjoyment.

It’s five years later, and while I don’t sketch every day anymore, I do sketch often in my journal — sometimes to represent something that happened during the day, sometimes just flowers (I love sketching flowers). My sketches have improved — somewhat — but my biggest learning from this little sketch practice is the difference between talent and skill. I’m definitely not a talented artist, by any stretch. But while the Louvre might not be knocking on my door anytime soon, I have improved my skill — and I’ve come to believe that anyone can become skilled at anything, if they enjoy it enough and if they practice enough. The exploration ignited by Marcus’s little gift to me might have even been the seed to writing In Defense of Dabbling (out this September!): because the idea of doing something purely for enjoyment’s sake was something that I don’t think I’d have ever tried, especially if I didn’t already have the talent. And yet, because I did, through trial and failure, I nonetheless increased my skill.

Who would’ve thought?

All of this might sound frivolous — doodling in my journal, making a bad sketch every day — but here’s the kicker: there’s something self-transcendent about experimenting with something that you love, even if you’re bad at it, and you discover your ability to be curious. To develop a skill at something you believed yourself to be hopeless at doing.

And to learn that for your entire life, you continue to be capable of growing.