Every worthwhile art project I’ve ever undertaken, I have hated.
Somewhere in the middle of the creating process, I have inevitably hit a point where I felt frustrated, stuck and miserable about whatever I was working on.
I’m not sure when I first noticed the trend but when I did, it shocked me. Ever since I first picked up a brush in Grade Ten art class, I’ve loved painting; staring at the crisp white canvas and imagining the finished product, breaking out the paints, blending the hues and most of all, the feel of my brushes against the dimpled surface. I thought I luxuriated in every moment of creating a piece. I was stunned when I realized that in reality, every painting that I ended up liking I’ve wanted to chuck in the garbage at some point in the process.
I call it my “I hate this” phase.
I used to be afraid of feeling dissatisfied with my work. It would scare me that I couldn’t seem to get things to come together the way I wanted them to. Painting was one of the few activities that truly gave me life. How could I say I hated it?
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