My year's abstract.
To my friend,
I’ve put off reflecting on last year and planning for the year ahead. Not because I don’t care or because I don’t love what I do. I probably do a lot more than I should. But because I haven’t found the motivation in my body to immerse myself in this type of brainwork.
I surprisingly feel content. This is a statement I don’t often say and am least willing to admit. It’s exciting to uncover the next thing to do. It brings spontaneity, newness, and engaging challenges to this otherwise mundane routine. Content is often paired with guilt, a mound of should and could statements. In all of this inner dialogue, I hear and recognize the struggle. I see how I’m closing myself off from simply being.
When I’m feeling the most discomfort, as I am with content, I sometimes find it best to write what I know. To place in a physical form what is less obviously in front of me. If I can state the facts, I can sometimes trick my mind into being less interested in overthinking and more interested in what’s present.
I started considering this year as if it was a book. I looked at what themes I might want to fill it with and what chapters would naturally fall into order. I’m not jumping to complete the outline yet, but instead writing out its abstract.
An abstract is most commonly a brief for a research article. They can also be used to summarize theses, conferences, workshops, and analyses. Their primary function is to help the reader quickly understand a paper’s purpose.
I’ll confess, after writing my abstract, I think I needed to see for myself that I was not wasting away. I needed to convince myself of the truths stirring around in my head. Though, I think its utility is far more than that. This abstract has become a guiding direction. To come back to when I’m ready to put some concrete plans to paper and hold me accountable when I start veering out of my orbit. To keep me close to my intent this year.
my abstract—
I want to make art. I want to read and write about art. I want to talk about art. And guide others in their visual language. It’s okay if I don’t sell a single original - my heart is tugging at me to simply find continued harmony between my pencils and paper. To center practice. Because art is the love of my life. And I will always find meaning in nourishing this lifelong affair.
I want to be clear - I will always be an artist first and aim to continue building a portfolio of work to share with future collectors. But that’s not my reason for being an artist. Nor is it the only zone I want to place all my efforts. After all, selling artwork does not define my practice. I say all this while recognizing its privilege. I am giving myself the opportunity to align with my intent so it can guide me back to myself. To not be weighed down when I feel vulnerable. To instead be reminded of who I am. My true passion.
My abstract also recognizes that creating artwork isn’t my highest ceiling. Mentoring and sharing creative conversations bring an immense amount of energy to my creative practice. It’s another place I experience flow. I think for as long as I live, I will entertain my curiosity and encourage myself to develop artistically - all of which comes from immersion in reading, writing, and talking about artwork.
I welcome you to accept this invitation to clarify your intentions this year. To map out your abstract for your year and set your guiding direction. If you do, I’d love to join you in the comments below.
I also invite you to get to know contentment. To find beauty in her stillness and comfort in her presence.
Warmly,
Lauren
I totally agree with you. No comparison, no need to explain. You know yourself. Proceed accordingly, and I’ll join you.