Most of the time, when I’m working on something that requires something of me physically, but allows my mind to wander – gardening, painting, cleaning, drawing, walking – I put on music or listen to a podcast or audiobook.  But sometimes, I give my mind quiet to see what thoughts bubble to the surface.  One day, as I was painting in a quiet studio, I thought about Vincent Van Gogh and his struggle with draftsmanship.  He had been on my mind a lot lately since I had been listening to a marathon audiobook biography on his life.  (I finally finished it a couple of weeks ago, by the way!)

He received a lot of criticism for his out-of-proportion figures, clunky faces, and wonky buildings.  He knew it was a struggle, and he practiced fanatically to improve.  He started using the grid method, but since he painted from life, he used a large wooden “perspective frame” with a grid made from taut string.  He hauled it around with him, set it in front of his subject, and used it to render more accurate proportions.  It improved his proportions, but even in some of his later work, created long after he adopted the perspective frame, they still look off.  They certainly don’t look true to life, not only due to his vibrant color choices but also because a face doesn’t look like a realistic face.  A tree bends in an unnatural way.  Clouds swirl, and furniture looks like it shouldn’t be able to stand upright.

I was thinking about this as I was stressing over the dog portrait I painted.   Were all the light and shadow shapes correct?  Was the likeness good enough?  Did it look like that specific dog, not just a similar dog? 

And then I thought about the distinct wonkiness of Van Gogh’s work.  It’s what makes his work his.  We can see in hindsight that the imperfections in his work that were brutally criticized and that he was so distraught over were a strength, a hallmark, and what makes his work stand apart.

I can relate to Van Gogh in that I stress about my draftsmanship.  It’s the weakest part of my art process, and I often don’t trust myself with it.  I practice.  I use tools to check for accuracy, to double-check my drawings, to speed up the part of the process that makes me antsy.  But I still feel self-conscious about it.

As I was dwelling on these things, one question rose to the top.  Am I missing out on the personality and character that would be unique to my work by being too concerned about the accuracy of a drawing?

I tend to elongate things when I draw freehand and don’t measure.  I made cups and vases taller and skinnier than they actually are.  I know this because I always have to correct it.  Make things a little wider and a little shorter.  In landscapes, I always bring the background too far forward, losing the illusion of depth.  I’m aware of it, and I still do it.  I fight it, try to fix it, but I still do it.

A larger part of me, the part of me that always wins out, sees all of those tendencies as things I need to correct.  They are flaws, errors, and shortcomings.  Signs that I’m still far from being a great artist.  But there is a small part of me that wonders if I’m fighting against the very things that make my work mine.  What if I leave the cup too tall and too skinny?  What if I lean into flattening landscapes?

As another example, Picasso was an excellent draftsman.  He was a prodigy.  It’s his faces that are drawn entirely wrong, though, that made his name in the art world.

I also realize this line of thinking doesn’t just apply to art.  On a daily basis, AI-powered grammar software “fixes” my writing tendencies.  I can see those tendencies more clearly than I ever could before because they are constantly underlined in blue.  It’s not a grammatical error, but something that could be said in a cleaner, more concise, and precise way.  I realize my fountain pen never interrupts my creative flow to tell me I could write I know it instead of I’m aware of it in the sentence above.  Is that software stripping away what makes my writing mine?

It extends well beyond art in the way social media algorithms push us into sameness, real estate specialists tell us to paint our walls white or beige, and clothing companies dictate what is stylish.  It’s easy and natural to strive for conventional perfection, but I do think we are collectively stripping away some of the personality that makes things unique, quirky, distinct, and even genuine.

So, I’m left with this…  Yes, I want to continue to grow as a draftsman.  I do want places to look like real places and portraits to have a strong likeness.  But I also want to give myself more room to allow my natural tendencies to make their appearance and explore them a bit more.  I also want to allow that in the creativity of others, giving space for their personality and imperfections.

I hope you’ll do the same.