So, you want to be an artist. You imagine a future revolving around the creation of pieces that reflect your thoughts, philosophies, and aspirations—everything your mind, heart, and soul can occupy. You have the end in mind: regular solo exhibits, well-received collections, accolades from reputable institutions, citations in art history, and a happy, healthy personal life.
But one of the biggest obstacles to achieving that end is the beginning. When do you begin? How do you begin? Can you even begin? As we start this thought-sharing journey, and in the spirit of this column’s title—which celebrates the potency of “first attempts”—this maiden essay is about the art of beginning.
In art, there are two layers of beginning: beginning an artwork and beginning an art career. These two are strongly related, but distinct. The first involves the birth of an idea—a concept or image the artist must birth into a tangible, absorbable form. The discipline of art production is a tricky engagement requiring a balancing act of inspiration, motivation, temperament, spontaneity, and unpredictability. It involves happy (or unhappy) accidents, unforeseen interruptions, and the ultimate motivators: the deadline and the bills to pay.
The second layer is relational. It is the act of putting oneself out there to engage with an audience of critics, patrons, fellow artists, and the public. In this layer, the artist-artwork-audience interplay forms what American philosopher Arnold Berleant calls “the aesthetic field,” where art meets audience in a totally new occurrence of an experiential dialogue with the art you created. And once an artist engages in the art world, in what French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu explained as the “field of cultural production,” the artist submits their work for judgment—subject to metrics of good or bad, cool or uncool, relatable or alienating.
An art career is a constant engagement in this field. Often, we exist in the gray areas, tagging and pulling and being blown here and there to some level of attention and appreciation (or lack thereof). We constantly negotiate the relevance of our art to an art world that we, in turn, constantly evaluate for meaning.
Having identified these two layers, we can see the layers of blockage: fear, insecurity, self-doubt, and competition. But we can also trace the layers of excitement, freedom, discovery, depth of interaction, and fulfillment. As artists, we must navigate these multilayered beginnings. The creative process can be a steady pace of excitement, but it can also be an intense tug-of-war between thrill and terror. The worst-case scenario is when fear takes over.
Fear is the antithesis of beginning. Author Elizabeth Gilbert explained this in her book Big Magic, noting that fear must only be a passenger in creativity’s car—never the driver. We face the fear of making mistakes, fear of being disliked, fear of unfinished work, fear of comparison, fear of one’s own fears, fear of putting so much effort for no foreseeable return, and the fear of “not making it” (whatever “making it” means to you).
Sometimes, fear disguises itself as something else—a headache, a stomachache, a sudden obsession with organizing your studio, or re-priming your canvases multiple times. You may want so badly to begin, but you are too scared to take the first step, so you fill your days with reasons not to. Sounds familiar? That’s because you are not the only one experiencing detours and engine failure when fear is in the driver’s seat.
The antidote to fear is beginning.
To begin is a decision. It is independent of your mood, separate from how nicely the light falls from your window, and divorced from your level of confidence. Regardless of whether or not you can control the outcome and how intensely intrusive fear becomes, to begin is to decide to begin and act upon that decision. When you delay beginnings, you allow fear to take up more space than it should. As Gilbert suggests, let fear be a welcomed guest in the back seat, but you have to start the car.
Once you start moving, you will learn, enjoy, and reach your flow. Yes, the act of doing presents new obstacles, but the act of creating dissipates the noise. Art-making, being one with your art, is always stronger than the fear.
While there are great moments to start an artwork (e.g., when materials are available, the weather cooperates, or when you simply have the time), there is no prescribed time to begin an art career.
Some start early; others start later in life. Renowned printmaker Lenore RS Lim started her art career in New York at the age of 44, feeling that her children had reached enough independence for her to focus on creation. On evenings after dinner, while still working full-time as a preschool teacher, Lenore would go to the Blackburn studio to work on the meticulous process of printmaking. Conversely, abstractionist and Fundacion Sansó Director Ricky Francisco started his art career in 2021, during the height of the pandemic, and has since exhibited in more than 52 group shows and two solo exhibits. Yes, you read that right—fifty-two. Ricky
experiments with different kinds of media adapted to painting, some unconventional and inspired by other fields such as indigenous textiles, gems, and resin. In a way, each exploration of a new material for him is a new beginning. Then there is Aba Lluch Dalena, daughter of artists Danilo Dalena and Julie Lluch, who had her first solo exhibit of terracotta sculptures at six years old. To this present day, Aba continuously exhibits, mentors, and leads artists’ organizations.
There is no deadline for beginnings. There is also no maximum limit on how many times you can begin. There are artists like me who began creating in college but took a hiatus to focus on other endeavors. Personally, I appreciate the opportunity of beginning again and again. Each chapter of my artistic journey presents a different version of me—an evolved self that makes up what I call an “assembly of selves.” In fact, every day is a chance to begin again. We can always begin again.
Give yourself permission to begin. Give yourself the opportunity to make mistakes and learn from them. Give yourself a chance to enjoy the process. Commit to a journey of discovering what your hands can do and what your soul can express. When you face interruptions and obstacles, know that you can begin again.
The framework that works for me is to begin every day.
It allows me to continue the previous day’s work while remaining open to what the new day offers. When you set yourself to begin every day as you approach your work as a continuous method of beginning, the excitement is sustained, ideas are refreshed, and intuition is reset. You savor the victories and struggles of beginning, and before you know it, the work is done.
Beginning is an art, too. You build the skills for it. You grow the muscle for it. You will doubt yourself sometimes, but the discipline of beginning will engage you in the beauty of creativity and the impulse to connect to the world through your art.
This is just the beginning of thinking about beginnings. In the coming weeks, we’ll gather different strands and tropes of attempts to create, explore, collaborate, and contribute to Philippine arts and culture.
What hinders you from beginning an artwork, an art project, or a career in the arts? Let me know your experiences so we can talk about them in a healthy, positive discourse.
