[The following is a piece I wrote and never posted on April, 28th, 2020. In the interest of some continuity in my own life, I’m posting it now.]
No one can really prepare for what a pandemic can do to the human psyche. We are all different, with different personalities, different traumas, and different reasons to get out of bed in the morning. And if, like me, you saw the abundance of time that Quarantine afforded you and thought about all the art you can make in this time, you possibly also hit the wall I hit. That invisible wall, that unlike mere art block, feels so heavy, it’s like an avalanche of bricks, telling you to get down and stay down. I was not even remotely familiar with that wall when this began, and I was prepared, my friend.
I have been home since March 12th, the first day I worked from home after cleaning out my cubicle at work. I’d spent the last two weeks quietly buying Lysol wipes and hand-sanitizer, cold medicine, vitamins, all the while refusing to be as calm as some of my loved ones entreated me to be. I wasn’t hysterical, but I had been following the virus’s progress since December. I wasn’t surprised when it spread quickly, suddenly hit New York, or when my boss told us to start thinking about working from home. I was ready.
Correction: I was ready to survive. My partner once joked that I was like a girl scout, always prepared, and despite the sad lack of berets and badges in my life, I pretty much am one. But I was not ready for the psychological toll on my artistic stability. Not even close.
“Art felt like an irresponsible privilege.”
For weeks I managed to do what I had to do, but art felt like an irresponsible privilege. A nagging voice in my head, the usual critique that I struggle with, seemed to get a hold of a megaphone and was screaming at me, asking me why I was even trying. Getting better at poses? People were dying. More dynamic paneling? People were dying. Practicing watercolor? Even more people were dying. What the hell was I doing making art? Who needs my art right now? What is it even curing?
I kept drawing through. I’m pretty stubborn and logic informed me that I normally find comfort in drawing, so it had to eventually come back. But I did tweak how I went about it.
Instead of working towards a result, I tried to pay attention to what felt right. What did I actually enjoy making? “Practicing expressions” seemed like a chore. Going on pintrest, finding a cool expression and trying to draw it as a character I liked?
That worked. Forcing my own comic projects on felt stressful, and I didn’t want to mess up. Drawing some details from other comics I liked? That felt good.
Coloring a full page illustration seemed like hours of energy I didn’t have, but grabbing some markers and practicing eyes or drawing fanart was totally my speed.
In all this I found the answer to my earlier question. I’m the one who needs my art. It is curing me. I have to get through this somehow, so I might as well have fun, and to heck with results.
So, please go ahead and keep making stuff. Share it or don’t. Keep it or burn it. What matters is that you made it because it felt right no matter how it turns out. Being creative under these circumstances is taxing as hell, and we need all the energy we can muster for the days ahead. Be kind to yourself. Don’t sweat it. If you don’t make one thing you like for the next few months it does not matter. As long as you liked making it. That’s all that matters.
Wishing you peace and safety. Let’s make weird shit.
-Samia