Permission to Fail
My seven-year-old is a perfectionist, and any thwarted effort can bring her to tears. Origami is our current nemesis, with drawing “cute creatures” close behind. Thus I find myself repeating, day after day, all the good advice in my arsenal:
“Perfect” doesn’t exist.
Creating is what matters.
Don’t worry about the outcome.
To improve your skills, do it a thousand times.
Later, deep in a project in my studio, I wonder if I’m following my own advice. Weaving is a source of tremendous joy and creative fulfillment for me, but production weaving – creating products with the intent to sell them – is not. In fact, it entangles my mind in all sorts of unhappy limitations. No one will pay what wool rugs would cost. This structure is too slow, better stick with something efficient. I have too many scarves already. These materials are too precious to risk.
Focusing on the “product” gets me mired in self-doubt and anxiety. There are already a million things that can go wrong in a project: sett too dense or loose, ineffective color choices, size miscalculations, a fabric that doesn’t quite fit the end use. Every new project involves a lot of guesswork, trial-and-error, faith, and luck. And the truth is, lots of them are big, fat fails! But how else can we learn?
So I apologize, dear reader (and all the friends and relatives who support me), but I cannot create for you. In order to learn and grow as a maker, I must give myself permission to fail at projects. I give myself permission to use beautiful handwoven wools and expensive silks and limited-edition linens just for the joy of weaving and the opportunity to try new things. Just as I would advise my child, hold onto that love of creating and don’t stress the rest.
