Creativity : Inside the Process, Part 3
Inside the process -
Part 3
Over time, I’ve come to recognize that my creative process moves in phases—each one messy, meaningful, and alive in its own way. Here they are. All 11 phases.
The path to change is practice.
Each phase offers something unique and shapes not only the artwork but also me. However, they aren’t truly meant to be separated; they operate as a whole, with one leading to the next. The more I practice navigating through my entire creative process, the more I notice the connection between art and life. This connection is one of the primary reasons I’m such an advocate for using a creative process as a microcosm of life—a testing ground for experimenting with new skills, practicing new approaches, exercising new perspectives, and embracing the experiences of being human—from loneliness to falling in love & everything in between.
Note: This post contains strong language meant to express the intensity of certain stages. I understand that it may offend some; however, without such language, the emotions depicted in stages 5, 7, and 8 would feel diminished. One primary objective of sharing my process is to not only convey my experiences but also to connect with others who endure powerful, intense feelings. Whether these emotions arise from a creative endeavor, a challenging circumstance, or past trauma, recognizing that we are not alone in feeling overwhelmed serves as a significant source of healing.
My artistic process, in 11 phases:
Resistance
Initial Stroke Excitement
Build Structure
Free Working
The Fear of Fucking it Up
Anxious Marks
I Fucked it Up
Nothing to Lose
Frantic Working
Feel the End Coming
Stopping on the Upswing
Resistance -
There’s always resistance, and it has become my favorite phase. It’s about preparation and anticipation, not procrastination. It’s about making space for the work ahead.
I don’t force it away; I just try to acknowledge it and stay with it. I address the areas of life that need attention. Not everyone understands this phase; it appears to be procrastination. But procrastination is about avoidance. Resistance requires listening and responding to whatever arises in my consciousness and following its lead. Suddenly, without me even realizing it, I’ve already begun.
Initial Stroke Excitement -
Beginning feels good. It’s purposeful. There’s energy and freedom. Infinite possibilities exist.
I start work on an unstretched canvas, pinned to the studio wall. There’s no pressure to get anything “right.” It’s just a piece of fabric. Nothing is precious yet. I’m making marks on the canvas with paint. Feelings arise within me. These early gestures rarely show in the final piece, but they shape everything. There’s nothing to lose.
Build Structure -
Eventually, momentum slows, and that’s my cue to build the frame and stretch the canvas around it. Now, the edges are defined. The work has boundaries. The frame becomes a container.
The gravity of the painting shifts, and so do I. The edges provide me something to push against. They help me feel that whatever chaos is about to emerge on the canvas won’t spill into emotional chaos in my life. I need the structure to navigate my roles as artist, mother, partner, and businesswoman. The frame creates the emotional safety I require to continue engaging in the process.
Free Working -
With my frame set, I play. The frame’s structure enhances my freedom and intuition. Nothing feels too precious yet. I’m not clinging tightly to any outcomes. I’m just enjoying myself.
I keep going until something resonates. I’m falling in love without realizing it yet, and I feel free to show up and do whatever I please.
The Fear of Fucking It Up -
Then I see potential, and fear sets in. I freeze. I stare. I take a million photos. I adjust the contrast. I change angles. I doubt myself. I know this stage so well, in so many different areas of life. It means I care, and I’m afraid that whatever is in front of me will disappear.
Even though I know that fear hinders my creative flow, I can’t avoid it. I can’t help but hold on too tightly. I’ve fallen in love. I’m invested, and I’m afraid of destroying what I love.
Anxious Marks -
Eventually, I start again. I try to stay light and act like I’m unattached. But the strokes are tense. Every movement carries a heaviness—” What if it’s too much?” “What if it’s not enough?” “What if I ruin it?”
And it shows.
The canvas becomes muddy. Undefined. Uninspiring. Clouded by self-doubt and fear. Like the inside of my head.
I Fucked It Up -
It’s ruined—or at least, it feels that way. Whatever “it” was has vanished. Lost in anxiety. Lost in overthinking. In fear.
I’m angry. At myself. At the process.
The old, negative voices grow louder again. The inner critics. The doubt. The shame. It’s more than failure. I feel like an outcast. Unfit. So I push myself to step away even when all I want is to fix the mess I’ve made.
I reach out to a friend. I go out. I move my body, trying to tolerate the feeling of failure and rejection. Sometimes someone can meet me here, but most don’t know how. I can’t hide my distress, but I try to mask it because my emotions might make people uncomfortable. Most give me space, but what I really want is connection, reassurance, and encouragement. However, I’m so wrapped up in thinking about the painting that I can’t seem to express what I need. As a result, I feel lonely.
Nothing to Lose -
Then, something shifts. The familiar experiences of failure and loneliness break something open. Anger kicks in—at the isolation, the self-doubt, the visceral frustration—and I hit the “fuck it” stage. From that place, I begin again. What do I have to lose?!
This time, the marks are big. Bold. Liberated. The room is filled with who-gives-a-shit energy. And something new emerges. I’m still engaged, but not in the outcome… I’m committed to showing up honestly, fully, with everything I’ve got. “Love me or leave me!”
Frantic Working -
Now, I’m all in. I can’t stop. My schedule revolves around the canvas. The energy is electric and consuming. I paint between school drop-offs and grocery runs. Between texts and washing dishes. Between emails and making dinner.
I hang my coveralls—the ones marked with every color I’ve ever used—by the door. I walk in, toss off my street clothes, step into the paint-smeared ones, and get to work. I find great meaning and purpose in this stage because I feel empowered, emboldened, and comfortable with myself.
Feel the End Coming -
Then, slowly, things start to quiet. The drive to paint softens. I go to the studio more to look than to work. The piece starts to feel whole.
I pause. Adjust. Observe. Something is settling.
Stopping on the Upswing -
Sometimes, this is the trickiest part: knowing when to stop at the pinnacle of completion. It’s about not pushing too far or overworking. It’s recognizing when the work has finished telling its story while still keeping some secrets.
But if I miss the ending, there’s no fixing it—only starting over. And starting over sometimes means beginning the entire conversation again from the top.
Reflection
What phase are you in right now?
You don’t have to be an artist to move through these stages. Any creative act—living, parenting, writing, healing, falling in love—has its own rhythm.
What phase are you in? What does it ask of you? Can you stay with it, even if it’s uncomfortable?
