The Ugly Ducklings of Your Art Jouney: Notes From the Pond of Failing Forward)

Do you want to paint or make art, but every time you try, you end up staring at what you’ve created with the kind of quiet horror usually reserved for expired yogurt?

You are not alone. In fact, you are in excellent company—every artist in the known universe (and at least two in the Andromeda galaxy) has felt this way. We call it “The Disappointment Phase.” It’s a bit like puberty for your creativity: awkward, confusing, mildly humiliating, but absolutely necessary.

Now, here’s the bit no one tells you: you’re supposed to make bad art. Not just once, but repeatedly. Heroically. With gusto. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to produce what I shall lovingly call Thirty Crappy Paintings.

Why thirty? Well, because it sounds official. But honestly, the number’s arbitrary. Could be 12. Could be 97. Could be an entire gallery of storm clouds that all accidentally look like potatoes. The point is: you can’t skip the bad ones.

But here’s the magic: each one brings you closer. Each “failure” is just another rung on the ladder, another brick in the absurdly wonky foundation of your future brilliance. You are not failing—you’re composting. And compost, as it turns out, is excellent for growing things.

And about talent—let’s talk. People love to whisper about it like it’s some kind of mystical birthright, handed out by celestial art fairies. Nonsense. Talent is nice, sure. But give me a hardworking plodder with a pencil over a “gifted” dabbler any day. Talent might get you to the starting line. Work ethic gets you to the finish.

So go ahead: make the bad stuff. Make it boldly. Make it while swearing under your breath and questioning your life choices. And then make another.

Because somewhere in that glorious, messy pile of “not quite right” is the artist you’re becoming.