The Shame of Creativity

Who gets to determine when art is “good” or not?

My internal motivation system at work.

From my journal…

There were moments when I looked at my art—paintings, prints, books, and writings—and felt nothing but disgust and shame. I couldn’t believe I had invested such a large amount of work and money into an endeavor that failed so completely. I was shattered.

That shame didn’t appear overnight. I’ve been living with it for years, and it’s rooted in a lifetime of creating and questioning whether I should be creating anything.

I have always been a creative person, although it took me over thirty years to acknowledge this about myself, despite being a graphic designer for the entire time.

When I was a kid, I loved to draw, sew, arrange furniture, create crafts, and do anything that allowed me to make something out of nothing. My love of creating was not supported by those who raised me, and I entered my childhood without a shred of confidence in my creative abilities.

Yes, I was still creative as I bounded through young adulthood. I became a makeup artist, almost became a hair stylist, handled marketing for salons, planned and executed fashion shows, and loved creating outfits. It was the 1980s, so there were numerous fashion trends to explore.

Then I decided to pursue a different path: college, and eventually, law school. Well, I got sidetracked from that path (a long story I may write about in the future) and found myself starting a graphic design business in 1992. I had no experience or skills, but I was confident I could teach myself.

Because I lacked professional training, no matter how good my designs were, or how much my clients loved them, I always felt like an imposter. It wasn’t until a few years ago that I finally started to accept and believe that I was a talented graphic designer. It took over thirty years, a specialization in book design, and a few design awards to get me to this place of confidence I embody today. And even then, that level of confidence could be higher than it is, but I will take what I can get, right?

When I taught myself how to paint in 2020, the imposter fears came at me so strongly that I had to write a book about everything painting brought up for me: shame, disgust, anger, sadness, fear, regret, and just about every other emotion a human can experience.

I thought that the more I painted, the more I would see an increase in my confidence. But, as I learned with graphic design, your “worth” as a creative is determined by another human’s desire to spend money on what you create. After three years of painting, I realized in 2023 that I had not sold a single piece of original art. To be fair, I was not trying too hard to sell, but I did have a website.

That summer, after painting the abysmal Sammy the Swan, I decided my semi-realistic / abstract realism painting style had to end. I felt the same ache I had as a kid—wanting to make something and being told it wasn’t good enough, but only this time, it was me delivering the news. It was a heartbreaking realization, and to help alleviate the pain, I created a new “plan.” If I wasn’t going to paint realism, then the only other choice is abstract. So, I immediately took a deep dive into the deep end of abstract expressionism.

After a few months of experimenting and trial and error, I began to settle into my style. But the question of “Was my art saleable?” constantly bounced around in my head. Actually, the main question was, “Is my art good?” which, I know, is a loaded question, but I had to know the answer. At the same time, we decided to end our full-time RV adventure, which meant I could test the artistic waters and apply for a few art shows. Then, I told myself, I would know the “truth” about my art.

My 2024 art show experience did not go as planned. I sold some art, but not as much as I had hoped. I wrote about it here.

But my last two shows, Funky Ferndale and St. James Court, were my best, so I considered doing them again in 2025. I told myself that my art was not “bad” since so many people at every show told me how amazing my art was. And I concluded that the reason I did not sell as many originals as I would have liked was that “I had not found my people yet.”

That got me through, sort of. As 2025 approached, I was still devastated and unsure if I would even paint again. I decided to forgo all shows for 2025 because I didn’t think I could handle any more rejection.

Then, a week before my lung cancer diagnosis, I received the invitation to come back to the St. James Court show in Louisville. I was thrilled and told myself that meant my art “might be good,” so I decided I would at the very least do that show. I knew I wanted a “dry run” before St. James, so I said yes to Funky Ferndale, too.

Throughout my recovery from cancer surgery, I looked forward to painting again and creating new pieces for the two upcoming shows. I had suspended my disbelief in my artistic ability enough to be excited and confident about the shows. I painted ten new pieces, and one of them, “Learning to Love Who I Am” (shown below), was my largest ever at 36 x 60 inches.

I was confident, ready, and excited for the shows.

I shouldn’t have been.

From my journal, the last day of the St. James Court show:

This is wrenching, humiliating, and financially sucky. No more art shows for me and my art. I cannot put myself through this again. I do not know why people love my art but do not buy it. I love my art. Maybe others will love enough to buy.

It’s noon on Sunday, and I am looking forward to six hours from now when I can cry. The tears have been in my eyes all day, but I will not let them out until everything is packed away and we are back in the safety of our Airbnb.

Then I will cry. I will process. I will begin to heal from this artistic trauma.

A man came by while I was out of the booth and said to Rich that he bets my art triggers emotions and that it would take a special person to put one on their wall. I appreciate the insight, but his comment makes me feel even worse about my art.

I can either embrace this or run from it.

Well, days later, I was doing more running than embracing. From my journal:

This sucks ass so bad. I am humiliated and sad.

My shame is strong, and it feels like the only way to alleviate it is to promise not to paint or write anymore. Then, the shame will stop. I think that is the only way the shame will stop.

I don’t want to stop, but part of me does. It’s so emotionally difficult to pursue this route. Why can’t I be happy with book design only? Why can’t I do that 50-60 hours per week and enjoy the rest of the time? Well, I am not sure what I would do with the rest of the time, though.

I don’t know where to go from here. Maybe that is okay. I just want the shame to stop.

The pain was so intense, and I was teary on and off for days. Hell, I’m teary as I write this now. I have been through a lot this year (cancer, mom dying), and that is probably contributing to my pain because this feels so much more intense.

More from my journal, three days after the show:

I don’t know if I will ever be able to write or paint again. The pain I feel from the horrible performance at St. James is so deep and is stopping me in my tracks. I do not believe that “I just haven’t found my people yet,” but instead believe, with my whole being, that my art is just not what other humans want to see. As Miriam said a year ago, it is chaotic, claustrophobic, and has too many colors.

If I have to change my art to sell more art, I don’t think I can do that. I will have to be okay with not being an artist who creates paintings people actually want to buy.

I want to hide every aspect of my paintings, but they are throughout the house, and I have nowhere to put them. I want to burn my easel, my paints, my blank canvases. I want to pretend I was never a painter, never wrote a book, and never started a Substack.

I want to hide from the world so they can never see my shame and my failures.

As I write this, it’s been a week since the show in Louisville. I am still sad, but the intense feelings of shame and anger are more fleeting now. I don’t look at my paintings with the same level of disgust as I did, and my desire to burn my work to the ground has been extinguished.

However, I still have questions that I endeavor to find answers for:

• Can I be a “good” artist without selling anything?

• Is a sale the only thing that gives an artist credibility and validation?

• What do I do with all the painted canvases if I am not selling them?

I understand that I took the “hobby” of painting and turned it into a business, and in doing so, it caused me great pain. I could keep painting and writing as a hobby, but that is not who I am; I am a serial entrepreneur. It’s in my DNA.

I aspire to one day earn a living from my art and writing. And if that is the case, I need to disengage my “business” from my emotions. As a creative, this is one of the hardest things to do. My creations, whether on the computer screen or on a canvas, are extensions of who I am as a person, especially the painting creations. My books and paintings reflect my design instincts, emotions, and essence. My designs are “me.” Creating is personal, and because of that, rejection of the creation can be devastating.

So, I need to sever the connection between my emotions and my creations enough to withstand rejection and move forward with confidence as I put my art out into the world, so that others can find it and make it their own.

Can I do this? Honestly, I’m not sure if I can. But I think I am going to try.

I love my art. I love the part of me I leave on each canvas, the emotions it absorbs, and the introspection it inspires. I love sharing my art and hearing that it’s beautiful, amazing, colorful, cool, extraordinary, and emotional. I love that people read my writing.

I don’t love that more people don’t buy more of my art. I don’t love that I don’t have enough confidence in myself to not go down a bottomless rabbit hole when disappointment arrives. I don’t love that I am still ashamed of my book. I don’t love that I punish myself when things don’t go my way, even though I could not have done things differently. I don’t love that I am still struggling with this.

Knowing what I love and what I don’t, is the first step for me. These things must coexist, whereas they are currently at odds with each other.

I promise to try.

I will start today.

I may paint.

And I just realized, I wrote this piece. So there’s that.

Thanks for being with me on this colorful journey.