Category Archives: Finishing

Expertise is not linear

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or why there is no such thing as an overnight success. More unsolicited advice on how to make it in the creative world, from someone who has been in the trenches for a while.

Many years ago Teri and I had an interesting conversation with a salesman. He’d come by to sell us solar panels, which we’d already decided upon, so the first part of the conversation was mostly a pleasant negotiation. Once the business stuff was out of the way we got to talking about motorcycle racing.

It turns out the salesman had spent many years racing motorcycles in the amateur circuit. One of the things he told us about his experience was really striking. He said that for not much money ($8-10k) you could walk into a dealership and buy a motorcycle that was almost as fast as the ones the pros raced. A talented rider on one of these stock bikes could expect to get within something like 90% of the professional circuit race times. So with very little effort you’d be 90% of the way there.

Then he said that if you spent an additional $25k (better tires, better exhaust, better injectors, better sparks plugs, etc) on that same stock bike, you could expect to get within 96% of the pro race times. So doubling your initial outlay could get you really close to the faster possible speed on a motorcycle of that size.

However, to reach that last 4% of professional times, you’d have to spend at least an additional $100k on specialized parts. He recited a whole list of parts (which sadly I can no longer recall), but I do remember that price. The main difference between the pros and the amateurs he insisted was largely that price point.

If you were to plot his data, it might look something like the red line on the graph below.

Honestly, I don’t know enough about the sport of motorcycle racing to fact check him, but the figures he recited surprised us. Both Teri and I had assumed that the progression from amateur to professional would be more linear, like the green line on the graph. We assumed that 10% of the cost would give you 10% of the speed, 50% of the cost would give you 50% of the speed, etc. That is, a set amount of effort would result in an equal amount of yield.

It was only later that I realized his progression of speed/cost ($5k, $25k, $100k) was pretty similar to what I had noticed in retouching.

As it happens I am an expert in photoshop, with well over 30 years of professional experience. One of the things I can say with some surety is that anyone can retouch. The Photoshop app is somewhat complex, but retouching with it is not rocket science. You don’t have to have an advanced degree in engineering to use it well. The only thing you really need is experience.

My breakdown on retouching goes something like this: (and yes, I am cribbing from Malcom Gladwell here) 100 hours, 1,000 hours, and 10,000 hours. These are the markers I look for to see how good you are. These numbers are not set in stone by any means. Use them only as a rough guide.

100 Hours
Put 100 hours of work into Photoshop and you will know something like 80% of what you need to be a professional retoucher. You obviously won’t know everything, but 100 hours is enough time to be familiar with most of the main tools, and how they work. Assuming an 8 hour work day, and a 5 day work week, then 100 hours comes out to be just short of 2 weeks. So put in 2 solid weeks of hard work in photoshop, and you’re most of the way to being a professional retoucher.

1,000 Hours
Put 1,000 hours of work into Photoshop and you will know something like 90% of what you need to be a retoucher. Assuming the same rate (8 hour day, 5 day work week) 1,000 hours equals 25 weeks, or about half a year of experience. Half a year is a lot. By then you will have learned most of all the little tricks, have developed a good sense of color matching, and will have learned most of what you need for complex tasks like layer stacking and embedding smart objects.

10,000 Hours
Put 10,000 hours of work into photoshop and there will be very little left I can teach you. In fact, I might be looking over your shoulder seeing what tricks I can learn from you. 10,000 hours is a good, solid five years of effort. Without question, this is a professional level. Honestly, you might be just as good in only 2.5 years, but one of the things I like about the 5 year mark is it’s about that point that you stop making most mistakes. You can know all you need to know before then, but it takes about that long to understand your weaknesses enough to compensate for them. At this point you not only know the work, but you are now looking over your process and tweaking it in little ways to generate slightly better outcomes.

Okay, so that’s a rough scale to follow, but this post isn’t about photoshop or motorcycle racing. It’s about how all types of craft follow this same principle. No matter which art you practice, your progression through it will not be linear, but roughly logarithmic. But (and this is the important part) to those around you, your path will appear to be linear.

There’s two parts to that, so let me deconstruct it a little. The logarithmic path is the way we do art. All of us. It doesn’t matter if we are talking painting, poetry, songwriting, silver-smithing, or quilting, The path to being an expert is the same. It takes about 100 hours to get to know what you’re doing, another 1000 to refine your skills to a fairly sharp point, and roughly 10,000 to pretty much discover every mistake. There are reasons for this progression, but I’m not going to go into them at this time. Again, Malcom Gladwell does a decent job of the topic in his book Outliers (though I wouldn’t believe every word he writes), but there is actual research behind the concept. The numbers are not set in stone, but they make a good rule of thumb. If you’re just learning an art, then this gives you a good idea of what to expect.

And to be clear, there are no shortcuts to this either. I know when you start out doing an art that you want to believe that you have some innate ability which will take you to expertise in less time. I know I do this, and have with every craft I’ve practiced. But the simple truth is, there’s no such thing. Everyone who wants to be an expert needs to put in the hours. Period. When we talk about doing things the hard way, this is what we mean. Yes, it’s difficult. Join the club.

(btw, this is good advice. Do join the club. Be involved with other professionals if you’re practicing a craft that pays well. Their wisdom will help you, and you might just shave a handful of hours under their guidance. But most importantly, you will be around people who are closely aligned to you. This is its own kind of balm. I never have to worry about explaining crazy clients to my other retoucher friends. They all get it. We have a shared emotional experience that is impossible to replicate.)

So back to the topic
This algorithmic progression (100, 1000, 10,000) is roughly the shape of our paths as creative people. But to an outsider these paths will look different. Remember how I said my wife and I were surprised at the cost of a motorcycle compared to its relative performance? This is because we all tend to think of things as being linear. That is, we assume the results should equal the effort. I assume this is just a flaw in human reasoning. I’m not sure of its origin or why we are affected this way, but we are. Perhaps we have an inherited sense of justice, and in a just world 20% effort would equal 20% ability. Thankfully the arts do not work this way. Honestly, most of them are too difficult. If we got relatively poor results early on, then we’d give up. I know I would.

So what this means is that when you put in your 100 hours, your friends and neighbors will look at you and see you are 80-90% of the way to becoming an expert. Naturally, they are going to assume you’re almost there. If 100 hours got you to 80%, then all you need is another 20 more hours and you will have nailed it. Makes sense, right! I mean, that is a linear progression.

The thing is, we’ve all seen this or done this. This part is very normal. Someone you know in high school or a neighbor picked up a pencil in art class and at the end of the semester they could seriously draw. Or they picked up the guitar, or they started singing in choir. It doesn’t matter what art or craft, the results are always the same. 100 hours of serious effort yields a huge amount of ability. And it’s naturally easy to assume success will follow.

But ask any expert in their field and you will get an entirely different response. If someone showed up at my door with 100 hours in photoshop and wanted a job, I would laugh. Someone without any experience at all might look at their abilities and think they’re pretty good, but I would see all of their flaws. This is EXACTLY the situation that every creative goes through when doing their art. This is why I recommend that if you want to be an expert in your art or craft, you work to professional standards. My point here is that those wishing to attain success in their creative field will be measured by the experts, not the amateurs. And believe me, they will have something to say about it.

This is why I believe that overnight success is a myth. First of all, because I’ve yet to see someone who suddenly rocketed to fame that didn’t have 5 or more hard years of experience under their belts. But also because I know what it’s like from the other side. Every professional art or craft is littered with experts, women and men who have done their 10,000 hours (or the equivalent) and know what’s what. Do you think they’re going to let some upstart play with the big boys just because they are cute? Do you think they’re going to go easy on someone else, especially after they had to do it the hard way? Not a chance.

The problem is, you don’t see anyone doing all those years in the arts. Our culture is amazingly blind to this work. Movies are especially bad, compressing any real (and thus boring) work into a montage. Team America even has a hilarious song called Montage that makes fun of this phenomenon. Books are not much better, in part because it’s very hard to express the mind-numbing difficulty of putting in that time. It’s literally something you have to do, and it often feels terrible when going through it. Back when I was a musician there was a common trope that everyone needed to “pay their dues” to be any good. This is the closest I’ve seen to the concept of 10,000 hours being codified in reality. Even then it was a long time ago, and every time I saw the “dues paying” concept it was consistently presented as being wrong, or some kind of gatekeeping. The truth is you often don’t know what you don’t know until you learn it. And it’s almost impossible to teach some things short of experience. That’s not gatekeeping, that’s how the creative process works.

So to wrap this all up, we have this tendency to expect the world to behave in a linear fashion, but the practice of learning any art or craft is actually more logarithmic in nature. It is the difference between our perception and this reality that drives so much confusion, and perpetuates the myth of overnight success.

A few caveats. Probably the most important one is you don’t have to be an expert at every craft. It is totally okay to practice a skill and let it remain a minor one. I have maybe 20 hours of sewing in my whole life, and while I can inexpertly repair a few things, and sew a straight line on a machine, I have no interest in being anything more than this. You not only don’t need to be an expert at everything, but sometimes it’s healthy to intentionally NOT be an expert.

And some skills can sneak up on you. Over the Christmas holiday one of my sisters showed up with a whole bunch of cookies, all of them tasty. This was not a skill I’d noticed in her before. But then I got to thinking, If you only cooked 25 hours a year, starting at the age of 20, by the time you reached 60 you’d have put in a LOT of hours. Well over 1000. That’s enough to make anyone pretty good in the kitchen.

The second caveat is that expertise is not a guarantee for success. In a competitive field like acting, or writing, or music, expertise is often the minimal standard. I know more than one expert who put in the hours and then found it hard to find work. It happens. All that to say you can’t assume x hours somehow = success, only that you are proficient. Sometimes proficiency is all we get.

Making mistakes with intent

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Another post of unsolicited advice on how to make it in the creative world, from someone who has been in the trenches for a while.

Last week I wrote a post about Failure. In it I talked about the importance of failure, and how you need to embrace your failures in order to become a professional. I made four key points about failure. They are:

You don’t need to aim for failure, it will come on its own.
Try not to make the same mistake twice.
Keep your mistakes to yourself, don’t dump them on others.
Own your mistakes when they happen.

I still stand by all of those, but this post is going to be a little different. It’s more about the nuts and bolts of doing art – the process of being creative – and less about the philosophy of art or about being an artist. You don’t have to be an artist to follow this advice. It pretty much works with every task.

In simple terms, when you do creative work you need to make mistakes.

Now I know this sounds counter to what I wrote last week, so let me explain some.

As I have posted before, in my day job I am a finisher. This means I am given a poster design called a comp (usually done in photoshop). My job is to upscale this comp to the proper resolution, repopulate all the photos with higher resolution images, and finally make all the photos blend well together. Depending on how well the comp has been built my job can be anything from mind-numbingly routine, to extremely difficult.

The difficult ones I always complain about, even though they provide the most creative freedom. There’s something deeply satisfying about turning a really soft, low resolution image into something sharp and high res, but the process is a lot of work, and causes a lot of stress. Sometimes you are literally painting a face into existence from a few stray pixels. The most difficult parts (the eyes and mouths, because they are the parts that the human eye looks at first) are very demanding. Even the most subtlest of changes can affect the entire piece.

Treatment for the movie Run Fat Boy Run done ~2008
Sometimes you are literally painting a face into existence from a few stray pixels

But it’s the easy parts that give me the most grief. The simpler the job (simple meaning less work for me) then the less vested I will be in the final art. Basically, I find it hard to care if I’m not fully engaged. And when I am less engaged I make more mistakes. In very simple terms you could say:

Boredom = Mistakes

At the end of my post on Failure I mentioned that the professionals I respect the most in my field go to great lengths to reduce the chances of making mistakes. This is why. Easy work leads to dumb mistakes.

This is true in every art form. Almost every author will tell you that when the story is really flowing that writing is a joy, but ask that same author what they think about facing copy edits for days on end and you will get a different reply. I know photographers who will jump at the chance to set up their lighting until everything is just right, but then struggle by the 100th shot at keeping the subject in focus.

This isn’t a problem with the creative process, it is a problem with the human brain. Our minds crave novelty, and seek out complexity. If your brain cannot have these things it will start to tune out. And no, it’s not an ADHD thing. It’s a flaw in how our brains are wired. Everyone’s brain does this, not just us skittish and sensitive creative types.

And this is why I say you need to make mistakes. Not to have yet another thing to clean up in your project, but to keep yourself just interested enough that you maintain your focus. You need to make little (and known) mistakes to keep from making large (and unknown) mistakes.

See? Simple. 😉

Here’s where it gets complicated. Only you can tell when your attention is starting to drift, so only you can tell when it’s time to start making mistakes. You have to sense your mood, and keep careful tabs on your mental state. This is by far the hardest part in the process. You have to know yourself well enough to know when things are going wrong. Once you can do that, the rest is easy.

Some examples:
I am blessed because photoshop is such an incredibly flexible app. There are almost an infinite number of ways to fix something. With the exception of resolution and color spaces, almost any solution is a functional one. True, there are some techniques which are better than others, but for the most part you can be creative in the way you fix things. And this part is key. You can intentionally switch things up.

Do you color correct using Curves and Hue/Sat? Try using Levels and Color Balance. Do you draw hair from outside to in? Try going inside to out.

If you’re a musician, try playing a song in a different key or tempo. Play that hard rock song like the deepest of country tunes, and see what that does for you. Switch to a minor key, play it like a polka. Do what it takes to make it new.

If you’re a painter, try painting with a different technique or color. If you’re a writer, try writing in a different voice or style, or have your character do something they would NEVER do.

The point is not what technique you use, it’s what happens to your brain while you’re doing them. Using a normally unused technique will change how you think. I will automatically make your brain focus more, making you more engaged.

Just making the attempt is the important part. It doesn’t even have to be useful. I often try two or three different techniques until I find one that works. The ones that don’t work I throw out. The goal is not just a final technique, but an engaged brain. Don’t be afraid to try and fail two or three times or more. You’re mining engagement here, and sometimes you have to prime the pump to get your brain flowing again.

The trick is to keep your attempts small and constrained. Don’t spend a lot of time thinking about it. Just do it and see what it does. Every mistake should be easy to repair, though I think you’ll be surprised at how many you eventually keep. You don’t want to do something that can spike your project, just something that can nudge your brain into a more focused state.

Besides having less mistakes in your final work, this technique also helps by giving you a more flexible approach to your craft. It is very easy to get all caught up into doing the same process over and over. Sometimes only one procedure will do the job properly, it’s just not always the best thing for your brain.

Basically, you are already creative in your craft, so why not be creative about your techniques as well? Use your creativity to make things better for you, and cause less mistakes.

I think that’s it for this week. Next week I have a technique to make your creative projects more fun.

So you want to be an artist

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Unsolicited advice on how to make it in the creative world, from someone who has been in the trenches for a while.

Many years ago I had a job as a delivery driver for a rental company. This was back when I was around 19 or 20. By then I had completed exactly one year of college before dropping out to play in a Christian rock band. The Christian part was new, but the musician part was not. (spoiler alert: I’d eventually fail at both). 

Music was the first art form I’d tried that I could unselfconsciously immerse myself in. Oh, I’d been doodling since elementary school, but I could never draw uncritically. I was always finding fault with my work. It was never good enough. Besides, I never saw myself as an artist. My mom was an artist and taught art, so I had a pretty clear idea about that path, and I was sure it wasn’t for me (spoiler alert: I’ve been a professional artist for over 30 years now). The important part here being I could see myself as a rock musician. The music wasn’t that hard, and the rewards (money, fame, girls, and drugs) all were enticing. It was a future I could embrace. It was my shortcut to success and adulthood.

Besides, music was fun to play.

All I had to do was try hard, and eventually I would succeed. Someone would notice my drive, my earnestness, and pick me from the crowd. Then my life would be nothing but limousines and pretty girls, and no more cares about money.

And why not? This pattern had always worked for me before. I was quirky, which meant I had that perfect blend of creative and smart. Teachers for the most part liked me. I was exciting to have in a classroom. I was surprising (in a good way). I had potential. The way I figured, if I was always going to be somebody, I might as well be the somebody I wanted, and right then I wanted to be a rock star.

And I REALLY WANTED IT. I was an unknown kid from a shit little town, struggling (and failing) to remain middle class. I had all the desire you could want. I NEEDED it with a white hot WANT, and I wasn’t going to settle. I was going to have it all.

Somewhere along the way I also became a Christian, but this was not an impediment to my musical success. Quite the opposite. I’d been listening to Christian music, and realized there was a dearth of good rock songs about God. Most of it was pretty tame in comparison to the secular rock I’d loved so much.

So I went for it.

It was somewhere during that time that I worked for this rental place. The job, as I told everyone in ear shot, was only a stepping stone. Success, real success (meaning rock star fame and fortune) was just around the corner. Sure it was the Christian version of rock star, so less drugs and more earnestness, but I was good at being earnest. So it was no surprise that on a slow day I pulled out my guitar to practice in the back. 

The boss had recently hired a new guy named Steve. (I’m sad to say I forget his name, so I’ll call him Steve) Steve was a little older, and probably a lot wiser, but we got along okay. He worked up front with the customers (something I didn’t do well), and I drove delivery. Still, we were close enough that when he heard me practicing, he came walking to the room, past all the half assembled lawn mowers and dirty dishes, wearing an expression in his face like he was close to tears. Then as he approached he got down on his knees in front of me, clasped his hand together as if in prayer, proceeded to blubber. 

For those of you who grew up in the church, he was mimicking an altar call. For those who didn’t earn their merit badge in exuberant protestantism, he was faking the spiritual ecstasy of someone about to have a conversion experience. Mind you, I knew he was being funny, I even knew he was being funny at my expense, I just didn’t understand why. I laughed, because it was funny, but I didn’t get what he was doing. Why was he making fun of me in that way?

I know now it was because I was exuding desperation and earnestness like a bad cologne. Exuding it so hard it made everyone around me uncomfortable. I was practically screaming my want to the world.

And it wasn’t enough.

Many years later, I was living in another town (Los Angeles) and working in another industry (entertainment advertising). By then I was a professional, earning a professional wage. I even had my own office. I worked for a small division of a slightly larger company. I had also met Teri by then and was either engaged or about to be engaged. Basically I was in my mid 30s, and settling down. I was also having a kind of crisis. 

See, at the time I was a finisher, which is the last person to touch a piece of art (like a movie poster) before it is printed. My job was to take designs that had been put together with more speed than skill, and make them into a cohesive piece of art. Finishing is a job that is more technical than creative. The big design ideas have already been worked out. Your job is to make sure all the fiddly bits, all the small details, work together. 

My problem was, I didn’t find the work creative enough. 

Most of the people I worked with were finishers like me. We’d come into the business from the technical side. None of us had gone to art school. None of us were deeply creative (or creative as I saw it then). So when we got a new boss for our division, one who was both an outstanding Illustrator and a photographer, I took him aside one day and asked him how one got to be a designer. 

His name was Michael Elins, and while his advice was a little mixed (he’s a much better visual artist than a writer), and full of exacerbation with me, (he must have thought my question was like asking a fish why they liked water) still, his words have stuck with me to this day. What he told me was that a designer didn’t just do designs. They got design magazines, they went to art shows, they made friends with other designers, they worked at design agencies. It wasn’t just a job, it was a whole experience.

The feeling I got from him was design was a kind of lifestyle. As if design was something one did, like being gay, or being a banker. It was a whole package.

This was a lot closer to the truth than Steve’s display at the rental place. But it took me a few more years to have both of them make sense.

Basically, what I think Michael was hinting at was that an artist first and foremost does art. That is, they do the work of being an artist. This is not unlike something that authors often say: A writer writes, or a painter paints. The main point being, it is not enough to want to be something like a designer or a rock star. You have to do the work. 

The key is not desire. You can have all the desire in the world and still not succeed. The key is in the work. It’s not enough to grow out your hair, or pierce your ear, or say all the right words. 

The thing is, much of the world doesn’t work this way. To be a Christian all you have to do is say you are. The same is true for most jobs that are considered unskilled. No one is going to check to see if you are really a dishwasher or a waiter. Sure there are limits to what you can say about yourself, but for much of the world, especially much of the middle class world, “fake it til you make it” is a tried and true recipe for success. 

It just doesn’t work in the creative world.

About a month ago, a very successful author posted something on FaceBook  about “being” an author. They were giving the tried and true advice I included above: A writer writes. Many of the replies showed that the other fans of this author were not “getting it”. They were under the impression that if you had a good enough idea, or sufficient raw talent, then that was enough. 

I don’t blame them, it took me decades to work this out, mostly by failing, over and over.  So allow me to save you that failure if I may.

The reality is this: If you want to make a living in a creative field you’re going to be facing a long uphill battle. I promise you, it will be a slog. There are three major reasons for this.

The first is about the numbers.
The truth is there’s a lot more people who want to do the work than there is money, and there’s not a lot of money. Sure there are success stories, but these people are vanishingly rare. For every Stephen King or Elton John there are tens of thousands of people who you will never know doing the exact same work for next to nothing.

Because of this, to succeed, even at a modest level, means you have to find a way to separate yourself from the pack. It very much is a competition. To be better you need to do more than just want to be successful. After all, everyone else also wants to be successful, and some of them surely want it more than you. Really wanting something is just the floor, not the ceiling. It’s the minimum standard.

Sure, there is a component of luck to this as well, but luck will only take you so far.

The second is about the process.
You don’t get good at any craft (be it writing, or painting, designing, or playing an instrument) by doing it once a week or once a month. You have to do it over and over, hour after hour, year after year. You have to practice it until your fingers bleed and your hopes turn sour. You have to practice until you reach the point that you are sure no one else in the world is going to care, and then you have to practice some more.

The value of art is in the doing, not the thinking. You can have a million dollar idea for a movie or a novel, but until you do the work of making that idea a reality – something you can hold in your hands or show to others – it’s not worth two cents. Art without action is nothing. Ideas, like desire, are just the floor, not the ceiling. You need something else.

The third is about standards.
It’s not enough to do the work, you have to do it well. You have to be demanding of your creative output. You have to hold it to the white hot fire of criticism, and burn off all the bad parts. You have to develop a critical eye. You have to be willing to be discontent. You have to suck, over and over until your work starts to suck less; until you reach the point where you stop making the obvious mistakes and start making the subtle yet challenging real mistakes, and then start all over again.

This is the point Michael Elins was trying to convey to me all those years ago. Good designers are always comparing their work to other designers, usually the very best, and then working hard to perform at that level. They talk to other professionals in their field, they notice all the work that is being done, and they are fucking critical about it. Most importantly, they are critical of their own work.

The thing is, this part is hard, perhaps the hardest. Just having the ego to think that you can create, that your ideas are important, that something living only in your head needs to be in the outside world, is super difficult. Especially, if no one else in the world gives a damn. Sure, you can surround yourself with others who care. I was in several bands when I was a musician, but even that wasn’t enough. The enemy is always the person you face in the mirror. If you shit too much on your own work, if you are too critical, you can shoot yourself down and keep yourself from creating. If you are not critical enough then you can go on for years being mediocre and never understanding why you’re not finding success. It’s a very fine balance, and it is always changing.

And even then, even if you do all three of the things I mentioned above, your success is not guaranteed. You can go your whole life and only those close to you will see your efforts. Look up Larry Todd, of Aline Kominsky-Crumb. There are famous painters like Van Gogh, Cézanne, Monet, and Gauguin, who died before they became popular. Even authors like Sylvia Plath, Henry David Thoreau, Emily Dickinson, John Keats, Edgar Allen Poe, even fucking Herman Melville, all gained notoriety after they passed this earthly veil.

You can have all the desire in the world, you can do the work, and you can do the work at a very high level, and still not find success. That is the size of the mountain you are facing. All of us creative types face this, and yes it is fucking daunting.

But also, who cares? So what if it is hard? Everything is hard, everything is difficult. Just getting out of bed some days is too much. Don’t let the size of the thing fool you. It’s mostly in your head anyway.

Knowing all that, if you still want to be an artist here’s my advice:
First of all, if you want to be something, then be it. Don’t wait for someone else to give you permission. If you want to be a novelist, then write a novel. If you want to be a musician, then play your heart out. If you want to be the best chef in all of America, then start cooking up your own recipes. 

Don’t wait on desire, do the work.

If you want to make money at your passion, if you want your passion to be more than just a side hustle, then you need to not only do the work but mix it up with the big boys. That means you need to be critical of your art, you need to refine it, edit it, make it better. You need to make it the best you can, and then you need to find a way to make it better. This is a journey, and it is NOT going to happen overnight. Developing a critical eye for your shit takes time. This is why there is no such thing as an overnight success, because becoming a professional takes hundreds or even thousands of hours of patience and dedication. They don’t pass that out at the corner. If they did then everyone you know would be a success. 

Perhaps most important, if you tried to do something creative but didn’t have the wherewithal to take it to the top, DO NOT LOWER YOUR HEAD. Keep your chin up. You braved more than most. Failure is not a failure unless you decide not to learn from it, so learn. Maybe you’ll learn (like I did with music) that it’s just not an art for you. Maybe you’ll learn you just needed a break to let things settle down, before you start again. Maybe you’ll learn that it sucks and the big boys cheat (they do), and the work is totally unfuckingfun (it is).

Being a creative means taking it on the chin. Always. There is no path forward that doesn’t come with pain. Easy street is for suckers, not for us. Sometimes the only way to tell that you’re on the right path is when the blows come hard and fast and you keep going anyway.

But also, there is no shame in bowing out either. This is your life, you get to create it anyway you like. In fact, your life is your best creation. If you step down a path that gets too weird or too dark, it’s totally okay to walk away. Only you can set your standards, and only you are responsible to them. No one else should have that power over your passion, so don’t give it to them.

Bottom Line:
If you want to live, (not succeed, but live);
if you want to be happy (not content, but happy);
then you have to find joy in the work.

Find joy in what you do. Find joy in what you create. Find joy in the creative process. It could very well be the only happiness you will get from your passion, so celebrate it. Make the most of it. In the end, this is the only thing you are guaranteed.

Finished

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My day job is working as a particular type of artist (a finish retoucher), and since it is a craft one needs to have examples of their work to show to others. Think of it as a resume of projects, as if you were sell yourself as a author by putting together a book (for that is what we call them) based on a small snippets, a page or two, from each story or novel. The variety of different “books” or portfolios, out there is amazing, and as they migrated to the internet they have been able to overcome one of the biggest limitations of a printed portfolio; that of space. In the past, one could only carry so many examples to a prospective client, so you had to pick and choose carefully what you would show. Now you can put up on your website literally thousands of pieces.  Some retouchers seem put up to have every piece they ever completed.
I’ve always found this process painstaking. Every time I go to organize my work it is like exhuming the dead. The weight of my knowledge (or lack thereof) seems to lay on every piece. Every success or failure has imbued the art with its heady aroma until I start to feel lost, as if I am trapped into the past. It is the most disagreeable of sensations.
Which is why I keep my portfolio small. I don’t want to show everything I’ve done. Heck I don’t want to remember them all. Some of these pieces carry with them some sweet memories, but most of them were work, hard work. And often they carry with them every disagreeable client decision, every stupid limitation brought on by bad photography, or poor planing at the shoot. Every project has its share of mistakes, and they all have to be worked out by the finisher. Literally, the buck stops here. So while you might look at a piece and see the smiling people, I look at it and see the all the mistakes I had to gloss over, or I see the better way we had the art before the client turned it into a piece of shit.
For me, when the project is over, I am DONE with it. Done with a capital D. Finished. I guess that is why I call myself a finisher.