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.