The Joy of Doing Things Badly

I remember when my seventh grade art teacher gave me a C.

I remember when my seventh grade art teacher gave me a C.

It was a landscape watercolor painting. I thought it was great and I’d never gotten anything other than an A in art class before. I also loved the arts and grew up drawing, painting, sculpting, and beading, always eager to create. My art was always abstract and perceptual; that was what came naturally to me and I’d always allowed my passion to be at the forefront of my creativity. 

My mother, herself an artist and one of my previous art teachers, called the school and asked them for clarity on my poor grade. The teacher, from what she said, didn’t have much by way of an explanation, and he informed her of my developmental disability, which promptly led to a grade change and me never receiving anything lower than a A- from that teacher again. 

This was the first time I ever truly questioned my abilities. Prior, I was always confident in myself, not just in art, but in all of my pursuits. I was always an excellent student and succeeded very easily, academically. I had won my school’s geography bee the year prior. I had competed in academic challenges and won medals. I had participated in dance from the age of seven and quickly worked my way through to the advanced levels. I sang in my church choir and played percussion in my school’s orchestra. I had

The next instance came shortly thereafter; I was an avid writer and was encouraged to join The Power of the Pen, which is an interscholastic creative writing program for middle school students in Ohio. Schools in the state formulated writing teams that would compete against each other in tournaments. My school held auditions for the team in the late fall, which consisted of writing two timed essays in a proctored classroom. 

I had been confident in my work, but always struggled with penmanship, so I prayed that the judges would be able to read my work, as I’d had to rush through parts of the essays to stay within the time limit.

I wasn’t chosen for the team.

I went from possessing confidence to questioning everything about myself, entirely. 

As the years went on, I was plagued with doubt and insecurity. I often found myself focusing on the things I wasn’t good at, the ways I wasn’t exceptional, or beating myself up for not being the best at absolutely everything I did. I’ve started to realize that this was, in part, driven by the performative standards of capitalism; my ability to excel was directly tied to my ability to support myself. When someone else would get the job over me, I internalized that message of inadequacy. When I tried and repeatedly failed to become an influencer, I saw the women who were ‘chosen’ by the algorithm to be prettier, funnier, and wittier than me. I wondered why my talents did not translate to a stable career and income. I felt envious that my manuscript was rejected by agent after agent, while other writers in their 20’s were able to sell their book proposals for tens of thousands.

Since I’ve exited the workforce a year and a half ago, I’ve spent much of my time tapping into my hobbies and interests. I’ve learned to crochet, I’ve taken up ukulele and guitar, I’ve started singing again, I’ve obsessively crafted, crossword puzzled, and made Instagram reels, just for fun. I’ve cooked, practiced yoga, read until I was sick of books, binge watched every series, engaged in self-exploration, volunteered, and reignited my writing practice.

One of my favorite interests that is an outgrowth of this list is recording cover songs singing and playing either guitar or ukelele, that I then record and often post onto my Instagram account. I often listen to these recordings and compare myself to other singers and musicians, picking apart my performance until I’m left in a puddle of dissatisfaction. I long for a prettier singing voice, i curse myself for every mistimed chord or muted string. I wonder what the point is of posting these songs, when I feel as though they’re mediocre.

I then remind myself that I’m getting back into music after 15 years of singing maybe once a year. I remember that I’ve only played ukulele for 8 months and guitar for 5 and that I am of course not going to be a master player at that level of literacy. I look at my more recent renditions and see the progress and growth I’ve made. 

I also then asked myself: what does it matter if I’m a ‘good’ musician anyway?

What does ‘good’ even mean? What does it look like? Being in tune? Sight singing? Knowing key signatures? Hitting every high note?

This has caused me to become more reflective in my approach to music, learning theory and using tools to become aware and improve on my performance. I will spend the time reviewing the mechanics of the pieces i’m performing, which has, in turn, made me a ‘better’ musician. 

Also, art is subjective. Every human with a voice is capable of song. There really is no such thing as someone who ‘can sing’ as all humans can, just as all humans can create art, form relationships, and play sports, and retain knowledge. How I’m valued in capitalist systems as a musician; is that really how I want to judge myself? Should I be reinforcing this internalized belief, when people used to engage in music and song as part of connection and expression, that wasn’t judged according to one's ability to monetize their sounds. 

There are so many things I enjoy doing and how ‘good’ I am at them shouldn’t determine my willingness nor desire to engage in them. If you enjoy something, it’s a worthwhile pursuit, is what I truly believe. We’re often taught to only pursue the goals and interests that we’re ‘good’ at, at the expense of our own pleasure. This is what they mean when they say ‘joy is resistance.’ Doing things because they bring joy, fulfilment, and pleasure, are worthwhile ends in and of themselves. What does it actually matter if you’re the ‘best’ at painting or able to make the most coherent crochet stuffies or able to get the most views, best praise?

We learn in our teenage years to focus on the disciplines that will lead us to our career goals and to leave behind the interests we have that likely won’t pay our bills in 10 years time. At what cost, though? 

The cost of our authentic selves.

I realized yesterday, as I posted another ukulele cover song, that I enjoy creating music and it’s something I want to keep doing. Sharing it, to me, makes it all the more enjoyable. So, why not put myself out there, regardless of what even I think of the merits of the performance, if it’s something that brings me joy and purpose? Why not stand behind my work, even if it’s not up to my own unattainable standards of perfection, that I learned in middle school? So what if I was one spot away from making my high school’s show choir; does that mean I should never again sing? 

Our C’s in art class also make us better, I’ve realized. I shouldn't have been ashamed of a C, regardless of if that’s the grade I deserved; it provides room to grow. There’s nothing wrong with not being flawless at your first, second, or even fiftieth attempt at something. 

The joy is in the process, anyway. 

The means are the end.