Honoring our beginner stage
Honoring our beginner stage
there's a well of magic and synchroncity in our early efforts
As I walked into my painting class a few months ago, I held the door for a pottery student who was juggling several pieces of her work. One particular piece caught my eye. I inquired whether she was selling it, and she seemed taken back. "I’m just a beginner," she said, "you can have it for free." I insisted on paying for it, but she declined profusely, urging me to take it.
Yesterday, I had a similar encounter at an art festival. Beginners were selling their pottery pieces for just $15, which felt like a giveaway. (I truly believe in affordable art, but this felt especially generous.) The booth was bustling with people as it does when basement bargain prices are found.
I ended up with several stunning pieces, all the while reflecting on how these artists might have held the belief that their pottery was insignificant because they were just starting out. I’ve had similar feelings myself since I began painting earlier this year.
These experiences got me thinking: What if there is something magical in our beginnings? Perhaps when we first start creating, we are tapping into a natural, almost ancestral knowing that doesn’t rely on extensive formal training or repetitive practice.
Instead of relying on muscle memory, our work flows more freely and authentically—whether it’s art, writing, or our first day on a new job—allowing us to tap into unfiltered creativity and genuine enthusiasm that can often get snuffed once we become seasoned.
What if we celebrated and valued our beginner selves just as much as our experienced selves? Why do we think that only years of struggle and grinding can validate our creations? Maybe there’s a unique worth in the raw, unrefined way of being and doing that comes from our initial attempts, a purity that deserves recognition and appreciation.
I am starting formal art school in a few weeks, I’m filled with a mix of excitement and apprehension. On one hand, I’m thrilled about the opportunity to deepen my technical skills. On the other hand, I worry about the impact that structured training might have on my beginner’s mindset.
Right now, as a beginner, my art is driven by wonder and the awe of just creating. I create with a sense of freedom that comes from not yet being bound by technical constraints. I can already imagine that as I build my technical skills, I might start overthinking, striving to meet the mark of some formal class grade/ranking, and focusing on correctness, which could all potentially change my relationship with my art practice.
Although I have these thoughts, I welcome the change because I realize it is part of the journey. Growth has its stages, and we don’t remain in the beginner’s stage forever.
As a nudge to reach the summit, a lot of people tell beginners, “keep going.” Yes, keep going but I really want to pause and savor the beginner’s spirit I’ve embraced over the past few months rather than fixating on the notion that a future version of me, once I reach the summit, will be significantly better and produce more worthy art.
Sure, in the future I will produce more technically sound art, but it won’t necessarily be more worthy. My wonky beginner art might have more dynamism and freedom, which could be more appealing to my collectors—just like the beginner pottery artists whose pieces I’ve collected and now grace my desk, cabinets, hold my fruits, and serve my morning oatmeal.
These items are daily reminders of the beauty and authenticity that emerge from the early stages of creation, where perhaps magic and synchronicity lie. I am now on a small mission to collect and absorb works from beginners—artists, writers, and performers—honoring and celebrating the newcomer.
Love these reflections, Janet! & you are truly right! There is something about beginning something you don’t know and just do what you feel that almost forms you as an artist. It creates a direction for you and makes you stand out. A million people can do the same thing differently, as long as they trust their process and don’t rely too much on the boundaries of professionalism.
I started photography because my mum wanted me to have a “hobby” that wasn’t dishwashing or cleaning the house. I just remember doing it so much and all the time, I found my own style long before I started traditional training and my professor told me to co-teach the class with him, because what I was doing with my camera was “so good”, he couldn’t teach me anything I didn’t already know. I hate that it took someone of his statue (a famous photographer in Norway” to validate my work before I got the confident I needed to add “photographer” to my Curriculum Vitae.
I hope anyone reading this can just fight that fear and anxiety of not knowing what to do. Beginnings are unique because there is no way back. So embrace growth and the learning journey. Also good luck with art school!!! You got some really beautiful pieces at the festival.
Love, M.
It is definitely true that there is something pure and magical about the beginning pieces. It is also true, unfortunately, that as an artist I don't think you can stay on that forever, cause at some point it can also look like "fake beginning", I think that can be also noticeable in your work. If you continue, your art definitely will change, somehow, not good or bad, but it will. I've been painting my own ideas for more than 15 years now, without counting many formative years before, and very often I find myself looking at those first paintings nostalgically. They have something I definitely lost, even though I probably could say the paintings I do now are, from a standarized perspective, "better done". It is a shame, and I'm trying to come at peace with that loss, cause so far, I found impossible to recreate that spirit. Maybe at some point I turn the wheel 360⁰ and go back to that loosen, not-knowing perception to just make, I really hope so...