When I was little and writing and drawing were ways to amuse myself, not a job, an imposition, and certainly not a calling, I was a fearless artist. I wasn't preoccupied by my creations, neither was I shy about them. When I was seven I started saying that I would be a writer, maybe a reporter, and later also developed a fixation with being 'the next Gianni Versace' on the side (his metal mesh dresses had made an incredible impression on me, you see). I was refusing to read books for children but I think that jumping into Dracula at eleven and The Picture of Dorian Gray soon after somewhat stomped me. By the time I was thirteen, I was getting worked up about my writing. I wanted my stories to read like Wilde's 'The Happy Prince' and didn't understand why they did not. I hadn't made any logical connection whatsoever between age, experience, talent, abilities, wishes, cultural influences, historical backgrounds, identity and one's own writing output. I was just 'crap' and woe me.
It took almost twenty years to realise that my fears, developed early and fought daily, were, and are, common to every artist out there. A few years ago, trawling Amazon brought Art & Fear: Observations On The Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking into my life and I've never felt more blessed at the click of a mouse. David Bayles and Ted Orland are the authors of this little book where they tackle the problem in multi-layered fashion: fear about yourself, about others and about finding your work. They then contextualise these fears within the outside, the academic and the conceptual worlds. Finally, they also focus on the human voice and on its most important lesson: '[...] you must first learn that the only voice you need is the voice you already have'.
Art & Fear is liberating and uplifting because it delves into an issue which is very rarely addressed: artists are afraid of art itself, of calling themselves artists and of their own artistic identities before they even consider the fear they face when their work is ready to be shared. There aren't many writers out there who do not feel a little odd when they hear themselves say, 'I'm a writer'. I personally feel more dignified when I say 'I'm an editor' than when I refer to myself as a writer. When I do so, I often add a but to it, as if being a writer-and-that-is-it were the dirty deed of some educationally destitute moron. So I say, 'I'm a writer, but I really spend all of my days editing short stories' or 'I'm a writer but I run courses about the perfect book proposal'. The word itself, writer, coupled with the identification of myself as such, brings out an anxiety and a reserve in me I never knew I possessed. This is before I even consider the prospect of self-validation and depending on others for it. For far too many people out there only a zillionaire writer can call herself such and everyone else is a saddo in need of a proper job. Yikes, and then they wonder why writers like the company of writers?
Read Art & Fear though and not only will you realise that your plea isn't unique, but you will be made to think profoundly about yourself and others as free-standing entities whose connections are superficial and immaterial in defining your work and your approaches to it. In the second chapter, 'Fear About Yourself', the authors write:
'In a darkened theater the man in the tuxedo waves his hand and a pigeon appears. We call it magic. In a sunlit studio a painter waves her hand and a whole world takes form. We call it art. Sometimes the difference isn't all that clear. Imagine you've just attended an exhibition and seen work that's powerful and coherent, work that has range and purpose. The Artist's Statement framed near the door is clear: these works materialized exactly as the artist conceived them. The work is inevitable. But wait a minute – your work doesn't feel inevitable (you think), and so you begin to wonder: maybe making art requires some special or even magic ingredient that you don't have.
The belief that "real" art possesses some indefinable magic ingredient puts pressure on you to prove your work contains the same. Wrong, very wrong. Asking your work to prove anything only invites doom. Besides, if artists share any common view of magic, it is probably the fatalistic suspicion that when their own work turns out well, its a fluke – but when it turns out poorly, it's an omen. Buying into magic leaves you feeling less capable each time another artist's qualities are praised. [...]
Admittedly, artmaking probably does require something special, but just what that something might be has remained remarkably elusive – elusive enough to suggest that it may be something particular to each artist, rather than universal to them all. [...]
But the important point here is not that you have – or don't have – what other artists have, but rather that it doesn't matter. Whatever they have is something needed to their work – it wouldn't help you in your work even if you had it. Their magic is theirs. You don't lack it. You don't need it. It has nothing to do with you. Period.'
There is magic in writing and each writer creates a set of tricks that are specific, peculiar and unique. You needn't fear your identity but should treasure it and nurture it as you would a rare plant. And, of course, proceed fearlessly for 'life is short, art long, opportunity fleeting, experience treacherous, judgement difficult' (Hippocrates).

this is excellent and I look forward to reading the book - thanks.
You are on an amazing journey and truly taking flight and it is so great being part of your journey!
I think the greatest act toward having the 'special' ingredient to make art, is the idea you want to work with, and the committment of constantly creating ie nothing will stop you, not even your own thoughts and fears! You see 'great' artists out there whose work you think: "I could do that" - the difference is, we often don't!!!
Lets just START I say.
Thanks Steph. I look forward to meeting up one day :)
A.x
Posted by: Amelia | 12 April 2010 at 12:39