Trusting the Wisdom of Instinct

Quiet. Color to color. Stroke to stroke. The hands conduct a fluid symphony of movement, fingers sliding down the wet canvas, fists flinging jets of orange paint direct from the tube. Thoughts fall away; one thing leads to the next; every act feels joyously unexpected…

Above: Detail of "Portals I," acrylic, oilstick and house paint on wood. 56 X 14". See full painting.

In painting, we can enter the flow of moment-to-moment living, coming into contact with the part of ourselves that knows just what to do, on an instinctual level. By practicing listening to this inner wisdom, again and again, we learn to trust how the hand gravitates toward a certain color, or how a spill or accident can open the way to a deeper creative experience.

Above: Me painting in my friend Chris's studio. Working on multiple surfaces at once helps me stay loose.

I'm beginning to understand that it's this same intuitive pull we follow in painting and other art forms that guides us through the rest of our lives, attracting us to certain places or people, aligning us with what feels right at the deepest level.

In this sense, art can be like a training ground. It teaches us to move from this place of inner knowing, to learn what it feels like in the body, to look for it, to trust its inherent wisdom.

Above: "Impenitent Eve." Acrylic and oilstick on paper. 18 X 24".

Sometimes our instinct speaks to us in a frisson of feeling, a tingle up the spine, a heat, a flutter in the chest. I'm learning to trust these subtle signals as my guides, emissaries of some deeper knowing inside me.

The moments of doubt, of feeling stuck, are just as important as those spent in the flow (though they're usually not quite as pleasant). The doubting mind strengthens our resolve, humbles us and brings greater depth and balance to our work. You're probably familiar with doubt's refrain,

an insistent little ditty that goes something like this: What should I do? Where is this going? What on earth am I doing? Etc., etc.

Above: "Unicorn on the Run," acrylic on canvas. See it at Art 'N' Soul Gallery.

I certainly spend my fair share of time stymied in these spaces, like a chess player lost in the mental fanfare of mapping out his next move. The chest feels blocked, I forget to breathe, reeled into the illusion that if I just think hard enough, I'll figure it out!

Above: "The Displaced, II." Acrylic and oil pastel on canvas. Also on display at Art 'N' Soul.

But in my experience, no satisfying creative act ever really comes about like that. When I look back over my art life, and recognize the soaring moments, the times when a painting seemed to crescendo with a final stroke of grace, not one of those times has ever directly arisen from a place of perseverating, or from second-guessing what my gut already knows.

This rule goes for big life decisions, as well. I find that most often they're made from a place of quiet knowing, rather than from that chattery, cerebral realm where doubt and fear are at the helm.

One reason I return to painting, to art, is as a way of strengthening this muscle, of letting this quiet knowing have free rein in the sanctuary of my studio, to see where it leads me and to realize, most importantly, that I don't have to know.

Above: "Portals III," Acrylic, oil pastel and ballpoint pen on cardboard. 18 X 19".

Nope. Knowing where you're going definitely doesn't seem to be a salient trait of this artist's path. But trusting the not-knowing, letting yourself plunge blindly into the experience of creating, or living, is no easy feat.

In a society consumed with plotting out every last detail of our lives, where value is placed on coming up with some convenient, single-shot punch-line to confidently assert who we are and what we do, not knowing, not having a plan or agenda (or clue!), seems downright scary (not to mention countercultural).

But if we're honest with ourselves, if we're moving from a place of what's real in the moment instead of what we planned or hoped or imagined would happen, we may find that we know less and less in the traditional sense (read: bye-bye, best-laid plans!) but are blessed with another kind of knowing, which supplants this old way, and flows and changes and leads us on its mysterious course, ready or not.

Above: Me and my mom painting during a day-long retreat at The Art of You.

Working this way in painting, to me, is not about meticulously rendering a subject or wrestling with the paint until it submits to our will. It's more about plunging in, with our clothes on, and seeing where the flow takes us. Which is not to say we'll always like it. (Oh-ho-no!) But it seems to me that in giving up knowing exactly what we're doing, in relinquishing that tight grip of control and opening up to whatever wishes to surface, life and art become ceaselessly rich.

In fact, in surrendering our ideas of how things should look or be, we are often rewarded with something far more juicy or breath-taking than our limited intellects could have possibly dreamed up.

Above: Detail of "Portals II," acrylic and oilstick on canvas, 60 X 24". See full painting.

Following the wisdom of our instinct means tapping into a wellspring of some mysterious, free-flowing creativity. Those nay-saying voices of doubt or fear may protest this on all fronts, shouting: Stop! You don't know what you're doing! Anything could happen! To which you may reply:

Exactly.

Comfort vs. Aliveness

One of the themes that seems to turn up again and again in my life and art is the choice between comfort and aliveness.

I think an artist's work is always partly like walking in the dark, moving forward without knowing exactly where we are going, but moving forward nonetheless, because that's how we say yes to life.

Above: "Untitled," mixed media on canvas

When we find something comfortable, perhaps something we do well, and we stay there, saying no to growth because it means beginning over, and not knowing again, part of us goes to sleep.

A wise teacher recently told me: "A yes to aliveness is also a yes to insecurity, fear and anxiety." I found it revelatory to remember that you simply can't have the one without the others. Insecurity, fear and anxiety are the bedfellows of any artist, any seeker, anyone, really, who is willing to leave behind familiar realms in favor of growth.

Above: "Dreamflight," fabric collage

We never know, when we step boldly out into life, what awaits; we have to be willing to make a thousand mistakes, or we might as well stay at home on the sofa and watch reruns.

In art it's often a matter of experimenting with a new material or form, working outside our comfort zone, or inviting an unknown element into our process, like a wild collaborator or a tool we know nothing about.

Above: Working on a new junk sculpture

It seems to me that the same principles apply to life at large. We have to throw ourselves into life wholeheartedly (even cluelessly, I might add) willing to hate something, to say "this isn't for me," to buy the one-way ticket only to change our minds and come right back, with new eyes ready to see something that we were previously blind to.

Above: "The Patriarch," junk assemblage

Sometimes we have to spend time somewhere unfamiliar to us, somewhere that wakes up our senses and jostles our brains into new ways of thinking. Or we have to invite something into our lives that perhaps scares us a little bit (or a lot), something that is not cushioned in sureness, something that brings us right to our edge.

I try to remember this choice between comfort and aliveness whenever I'm faced with big decisions in my life, especially when I'm afraid of making mistakes. As that same wise teacher so rightly reminded me: "If there isn't a spirit of adventure, what's the point?"

Perhaps this is part of the reason I feel drawn to art, again and again in my life. Because at its root, it's about adventure, about following our instincts and learning the way as we go. There's no real formula in art, despite what some teachers or textbooks may advise. Every artist, every creator, has to start from scratch, and chart his or her own course, knowing it will be different from the rest.

Above: "Corazoncito Cocodrilo," collage

And taking risks is part of that. For me, wielding a screw gun or a welder is a lot less comfortable than moving paint around on a canvas. That doesn't mean that I should do one over the other, but it does mean that I can venture into new ground, and find my edge by trying something that feels foreign to me. I may get stuck, I may occasionally fling things across a room or feel about as safe as a toddler with a table saw, but even so, I can feel a surge of aliveness in me as I struggle.

Above: Me playing with junk in my backyard

Through risk-taking in art we get to practice choosing aliveness over comfort, again and again. And each time we do, the part of us that wants to grow, that wants, like a flower, to turn its face up to the sun, is letting a new petal pull back, is letting more of us be exposed, is choosing to open.