The moment I finish a painting, I want to hold it up like a kid who just finger-painted a messy masterpiece and yell, “Look what I made!” Not to anyone in particular, mostly to the Universe.
I want to pin it to the cosmic fridge and walk away. No hashtags. No carefully curated story about my “process.”
Just… here. This came through me.
And then, of course, the stinky gunk arrives.
The stinky gunk is that yucky invisible sludge that builds up between the making and the sharing. It’s the voice that says: What’s the point? Is this going to resonate? Shouldn’t you write something profound about it? Is it even “on brand”? What with THEY think? OMG I need to fuggedaboudit and not share it. SIGH.
Suddenly, my innocent offering feels like it needs a marketing department and special therapist.
And here’s where it gets tricky…
We live in the age of performative authenticity (honestly, is there anything that doesn’t get co-opted for social trends?)
You know, when someone says, “I’m being so raw right now”… after their third take, with perfect lighting, a candle glowing in the background, and just the right amount of “accidental” hair sticking out. It’s not lying exactly. It’s more like preheating the oven before you serve the “fresh out of the oven” cookies.
Curated chaos. Messy hair that somehow still got the memo to look cute. (Granted, I always have messy hair. Whenever I have to film a video and Marc is there he is always on the “your hair is all over the place fix it mode” train)
Real authenticity is when you spill paint on your shirt, maybe even have a booger on the end of your nose, keep working, and forget it’s there. Performative authenticity is when you spill paint, then re-spill it in better light so you can “effortlessly” capture the moment for Instagram.
I didn’t start painting to win likes or prove my relatability. I started because I can’t not make things. Because colour and texture are my way of having a conversation with the unseen, a conversation that sometimes answers me in the most unexpected ways. It’s a moving thing from meditation to anxiety, to anxiety relief to focus, and more focus to listening, hearing, moving, dancing, and gratitude and awe at the end when I know the mess is complete!
When I share my art, it’s not for a performance review. It’s me saying, Here’s what the Universe and I talked about today. You can listen in if you like, or maybe, just maybe it might say something personal and special to you.
The truth is, some people will love it. Some will scroll past. And the rest might not get it at all. But none of that changes why I made it.
So maybe the trick is this: make the thing, love the thing, share the thing — then go make another thing.
No overthinking. Just a standing appointment with the Muse, even when she shows up in dirty sweatpants, humming off-key, and tracking paint across the floor (and on my white leather couch and fave blouse just because I had an abrupt muse magic moment!)
Because that’s really the magic, isn’t it? We make something, not knowing exactly where it will land, but trusting that somewhere, somehow, it’s finding the person it was meant for.
That’s the conversation I’ve been having with the Universe lately, one brushstroke, one splash of color, one imperfect, joy-filled moment at a time.
And speaking of imperfect, joy-filled moments… I’ve been pouring that exact spirit into something brand new.
I have a new book coming soon that lives right at the intersection of metaphysical woo-woo, neuroscience, and art, and it’s designed so anyone can play, experiment, and create their own “LOOK WHAT I MADE” moments.
You can pre-order The Art of Manifesting here and get some fun bonus gifts, including a ticket to an online art party with me on September 24th. Bring your messy hair, a pen, paper, and your sense of humor, and we’ll make something together and pin it up on the cosmic fridge.
Love,
Colette
