This post is by Luann Udell, regular contributing author for FineArtViews. She's blogged since 2002 about the business side--and the spiritual inside--of art. She says, "I share my experiences so you won't have to make ALL the same mistakes I did...." For ten years, Luann also wrote a column ("Craft Matters") for The Crafts Report magazine (a monthly business resource for the crafts professional) where she explored the funnier side of her life in craft. She's a double-juried member of the prestigious League of New Hampshire Craftsmen (fiber & art jewelry). Her work has appeared in books, magazines, and newspapers across the country and she is a published writer.
There's a big difference between perseverance and suffering.
I overheard another intriguing comment at the physical therapy practice I go to. Out of nowhere, one of the therapists told a client, "We want to see perseverance, not suffering."
Oh, the memories.....
Years ago, (seems like an eternity) I was really into martial arts. (No, I never got a black belt, though all my instructors along the way said I was well on my way.)
I never got there because.....injuries.
I pursued martial arts over a spread of 15-20 years in my middle age, sometimes with massive breaks in between practices and schools (Tae Kwon Do, Thai Kickboxing, then back to Thai Kwon Do.)
Typically, I was the oldest person in the class. I always did my best, but I've always been "heavy" on my feet as opposed to "light". Ironically, this quality is not due to weight. Jackie Gleason was always heavy, but he was also "light on his feet". I've talked with my husband (a former gymnast), physical therapists and athletes about this quality. They recognize what I'm saying, but can't identify what it "is", whether it is innate or can be learned, and why some people have it and some don't. It is not an indication of ability, but is a recognizable style.
And so, encouraged by my instructors to push myself, I always, eventually, ended up injuring myself pretty badly. (Although, come to think of it, my most major injuries were inflicted by a) an instructor who should have known better, according to other instructors in the class, and b) another student who was even more inept than I was, tried to kick me below the belt, and when I blocked him, his shoe broke my finger. (He had to wear shoes as he was diabetic.)
The story typically goes like this:
One evening, I went to Tae Kwo Do. We did a kicking work-out. The instructor yelled, "Faster!" and I didn't want to be the one everyone was waiting on.
So I picked up the pace a wee bit, landed wrong on my foot, and injured my Achilles tendon.
I instantly had a cap on almost all my other activities for many months.
I felt pretty stupid. The instructor wasn't urging me to go past my limits--he was yelling at the green belts. I was the one who felt I had to prove something--that I may be older, but I was still a competent student.
Well, I went over that delicate balance between challenge and injury, and landed hard on the injury side.
It wasn't even my own challenge. I was worried what other people would think if I didn't try harder. Even though I should know by now that is NOT the way to get what I need. The only thing I get with that attitude is more injuries.
I told myself I would not give in to self-pity, nor get angry with myself.
I went swimming instead. And with each stroke, I chanted to myself, "I.....can.....handle.....this."
I realize I walk a delicate balance in everything I do. Working out. Friendships. Relationships. In my business. And with my art.
I need to push myself enough to challenge myself, to make myself grow stronger, physically, emotionally, artistically.
And yet hold just enough back so as not to injure myself, or others.
As in martial arts, so in my art. There's that same balance between taking the professional risks that challenge me, without injuring my bottom line (and my ego) irreparably.
That particular injury (and there were many along that path) happened just before my (very full) fine craft wholesale/retail show was scheduled. I realized I was in the same place with my art biz. Although I had no idea what to expect, I knew I had to try.
Sometimes I get freaked out thinking it out--"What am I doing??!!" Other times, I feel it is a reasonable venture.
Hopefully, I would find buyers who were looking for work that had a more western/southwestern/northwestern feel.
If not, I knew I would come home feeling like I need to crawl into a barrel and mosey on over Niagra Falls.....
But not for long. I knew if this show proved not a good fit for my work, I would just have to get over it and try a whole 'nother strategy.
Like my tendon, my ego eventually healed. And like my injury didn't keep me away from martial arts very long, guessing wrong will not discourage me from making my art. Not for very long, at least.
In the end, the injuries accumulated to the point where I did have to walk away from that passion. And those shows? Well, that was just before the recession in 2007-2008. They turned out to be a gamble, one I finally decided was not worth it.
After creating new strategies over the years, I finally found what worked for me: One major show with a deep history and very loyal following, open studios, and online sales.
Moving to California meant rebooting in may ways. I'm still working out my best plan to persevere in my art-making.
What worked for me then doesn't work for me now. What works for me now is still in process. There continue to be obstacles and injuries along the way.
But here are two big truths I hope inspire you on your own journey in making the work that lifts your heart:
As I said, I was not a "natural" when it came to Tae Kwon Do. But every instructor always reminded me: We are competing with ourselves. (One class was "Olympic" but there were plenty of folks who obviously weren't going down that path.)
Because I was "bad" at it, I had to practice more than others did. I showed up, every class. My last instructor said, after the last big injury that meant I could never practice again, that my perseverance had gained me excellent technique, and indomitable spirit. He said he felt guilty they had started me at the beginning all over again (they doubted my credential from an instructor who had moved away.)
He said I deserved a black belt.
So, wait, four big truths:
I did what I loved.
Perseverance almost got me there.
Practice makes perfect.
I've gotten very good at not giving up.
Whatever you need to do to make your place in the world, never give up what you love until it takes away from you. Even then, there are ways to keep moving forward. (T'ai Chi!)
Find the balance (life/work/art) that works for you.
And keep doing it 'til you get better.
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