Painting as a Teacher
When it comes to creativity, I’m starting to realize it’s all about output. A lot of output. Quantity over quality—every day.
The more I read about creativity, the clearer it becomes: perfectionism is the killer of any creative life. Picasso, Van Gogh, and so many others created thousands of works—many of which weren’t particularly good. But all those “bad works” were exactly what it took for them to reach mastery. To develop their own, unique style.
And yet, I still expect myself to pick up the guitar—or a paintbrush, or a pen—and immediately create something groundbreaking, something perfect.
Sometimes, when I’m in the process of creating—writing a song, recording, or painting—I lose myself in the act. But as soon as I step back and look at the result, the voices of criticism get louder:
“That melody is just based on a simple pentatonic scale—anyone could do that.”
Or I scold myself for borrowing stylistic elements from other artists, as if that proves I lack originality.
The result?
I end up here, writing out my frustrations, feeling demotivated to keep going.
The only real solution I see is this: to keep creating anyway. As often as possible. To learn to let go of control and the expectation of “good output.” And when I can’t let it go, to sit with it, to confront it—almost like in meditation.
Because good music, like good art in general, comes far more from quantity than from quality.
Learning through Painting
That’s why I’ve been painting watercolors lately. It helps me face my feelings of inadequacy. Painting lowers my expectations, because I don’t actually want to be a visual artist—I want to be a musician.
And that freedom gives me space to play. When I put color on paper, there’s no concept, no plan. Just curiosity. I trust the image will sort itself out in the end.
With music, it’s different. I often feel blocked by my lack of formal training. I only have my “campfire chords,” which sometimes feel like the equivalent of finger painting. I tell myself I don’t yet understand the full range of “colors” I could be using.
And music is fleeting. Unlike painting, where I can hold a finished piece in my hands, a song must be recreated every time I play it:
Which picking pattern should I use?
Should I shift into strumming for more energy?
What vocal ornaments do I add, and when?
What riffs and runs belong in this version?
How much energy or confidence do I have today?
Music happens live, in the moment. It dissolves as it’s being consumed. That makes it harder to judge my own growth or originality, because there’s nothing permanent to look back on.
(Recordings, of course, exist—but they often feel like a poor replica. Like taking a phone photo of the Mona Lisa: kind of similar, but nowhere near the real thing.)
The Universal Lessons
Painting has helped me understand that the mechanisms of art—whether visual or musical—are universal:
Trust pays off.
Artists must learn to let go, so something larger can flow through them.
Originality doesn’t come from perfection, but from curiosity and the joy of experimenting.
Musical quality is born from the courage to be imperfect.
People don’t connect with perfection; they connect with soul—when they recognize us in what we create.
In the words of Dwayne Walker, from World of Creatives:
“Being yourself matters more than being perfect.”
Unlike painting, music demands even more trust. Trust that I am only a vessel for something bigger. And if that’s true, then maybe it’s not so important whether I approve of what comes out of me.
