To Cringe or Not to Cringe, That is the Question

Here is the problem with being a working artist. 

So says I.
(I’m so glad you asked)

Okay, okay, 

- Here is one of the problems with being a working artist.

Other problems include:

Capitalism IS a GIANT flaming fickle bitch with a cherry on top.

In our society (American society), it’s normal to binge and gobble up art at a terrifying pace via Netflix, video games, songs on repeat, books, podcasts, and Insta-scrolling of favorite artists and creators. 

-But it’s also okay to devalue all that art by only paying $15/mo, and writers have to strike for 148 days to get paid what they are worth, and we scoff at paying $5 for an artistic greeting card because “it’s just a piece of paper.” (middle finger emoji) 

Feeling sad to see your favorite paintings sell because you loved them, but selling them was the goal, and now you can pay the power bill. 

-In how many other professions does success = sadness??! 

But I digress. 

(that probably should have been my full name)

Does anyone else take a detour mid-story and get so involved in the side story that they forget why they started telling the original story?

Anyway -

Being an artist or the act of making art is quite lovely. 

In fact, I have found that nothing brings more joy or is as fulfilling as making art, short of jumping on a plane yelling, “Eat it bitches” while flying halfway across the globe for wine, cheese, and croissants. 

But the one problem specifically that has me in a tilt-a-whirl after six pounds of cotton candy and four corndogs slathered in yellow mustard thought-spiral. 

Is this: 

If you are not cringing at your previous work, it means you’re not growing. 

And if you’re not growing, then you’re not cringing. 

And not cringing is a very comfortable place to be. 

…But it means you’re not growing. 

Let’s say that your work is continually evolving and growing. Because you are ravenous for more information to make up for all the years you didn’t paint.
To feed this beast, you (it’s me) keep pushing your boundaries, learning new things, and flying across the country to take lessons from master painters.
You (still me) continue playing with different mediums and techniques, obsessively taking classes, and investing in that growth. 

Now imagine constantly cringing at your work. 

And I do mean ALL THE TIME!

This is why you will find so many artists who legitimately hate their work. It’s either not what they were trying to accomplish - enter stage right “a series” - so many attempts to get what is in one’s head out onto the canvas. 

Or they did like it, but as their work shifted and evolved, they slowly started to be embarrassed by their previous work.
Enter the cringe. 

This is the camp where I have currently pitched a twelve-person wall tent, complete with lush carpeting, a wood stove, elevated beds on lacquered log frames with feather duvets brimming with overstuffed pillows, twinkle lights, fully stocked bookshelves, and a chef on hand to make gourmet smores on demand. 

My work has been evolving at such a rate that when I try to work ahead or make a large batch of something to save for, oh, I don’t know, say, an art fair that is coming up in three to four months—I would be so embarrassed to pack it up and bring it along.  

Example A:

Florals in jars on a black background.
When I first painted these, I loved them! I was so excited to show them to as many people as would look. They were a major departure from the work I had been doing, and they were the first series in which I used a new heated palette that allowed me access to so many colors all at once—and it showed.

And don’t get me wrong—I still like them, but then I made this version of the florals in black.
Oh, they had a semester abroad, and now they speak French!!!
I like it even more!

Then I took it one step further, and I made this painting. It started as florals on black and then joined the Peace Corps and came back with all this extra culture and history!

They say comparison is the thief of joy, and this is true when comparing old work to new work.

So what’s an artist to do?!

I’m sincerely asking.

I don’t have the answer. 

This isn’t a thought experiment where the answer was, “Right there the whole time!”
I am on the verge of vomiting a LOT of cotton candy and smores right now because the answer is not here, and I am still buckled into this tilt-a-whirl.

I suspect that the longer I work in encaustic, the more I’ll plateau, hopefully- in a good way, find my groove, and fall into a style that is all my own—which is both comforting and disappointing.

I don’t want to be confronted by cringing all the time, but I also don’t want my work to stagnate. 

So I ask again, what’s an artist to do?

Fun fact there is a flip side to this coin.

(of course, there fucking is!!)

Sometimes, as the years pass, I look at old work and am wistful for that style, but I don’t know how to return to it. 

Honestly, how is that a thing??! 

For example, this painting is one I did about 10 years ago when I started painting again. 

It’s done with grocery store Crayola watercolors and children’s brushes.
I remember being so disappointed in this painting back then because it was not even close to what I was attempting to capture, but now I adore its uniqueness and unusual childlike style.  

Will I look back on my original Florals on Black and feel whistful about them, too?
I hope so.
I hope not.
I genuinely don’t know. 

What do you cringe over?
Have you gotten over the cringe?
Is there a place beyond cringe?
Is there a Tilt-a-Whirl operator in the house? I’d like to get off now.