On March 1, unaware of how much my life was about to change, I bought a watercolor set, a sketchbook, and brushes from Walmart. The signs of the apocalypse were ever-present; toilet paper and tissues were nearly sold out, and many customers were stocking up on dry goods. But, back in the art, crafts, and toys section, there were no signs that a pandemic was about to encroach on our freedom of movement. Children ran around and played. Not a single art supply was out of stock.
At first, my art creation was barely affected by COVID-19. We were in the before times then. I wasn't entirely unconcerned about the virus, but I had more immediate concerns to worry about. I was a stage manager/co-director for Soka's upcoming musical, a Performing Arts Center employee, and a busy senior working on Capstone. I shoved time for creativity into the gaps between rehearsal, sleep, and class. My life was full of worry.
And then, everything escalated.
On Tuesday, March 10, we found out that classes would be canceled for the rest of the week. After spring break, we would have classes online until April 3. My time for painting increased. While I worried about whether we could continue to have the musical, whether classes would be cancelled for the rest of the semester, and whether I should go back home, I painted.
On Thursday, we learned that the Performing Arts Center, where I was employed and the musical was supposed to take place, was cancelling all productions for the rest of the semester. On Friday, we were told that classes were cancelled for the rest of the semester, and that we needed to move out of the dorms within two weeks. My painting was put on pause as I packed up all of my belongings, said goodbye to my friends, and returned home on Saturday, March 14.
There are the small scale struggles that make up our daily lives (failing a test, forgetting a birthday, losing a beloved item) and the more far-reaching struggles (divorces, health crises). I think that it is human nature to look at suffering and try to identify fault. You failed the test because you didn't study. You forgot a birthday because you didn't update your calendar. You lost something you cared about because you didn't follow an organizational system. A couple got divorced, because one of the parties was terrible and the other just couldn't take it anymore. Your health is in crisis because you just couldn't take care of yourself. Even when nobody is particularly at fault, we want to view each challenge as a series of small failures that we can avoid if we just make responsible choices.
At first, I responded to these challenges, as I had before, with distraction. I painted, I sent emails, and I contemplated a major decluttering session. And then, I began to feel the weight of failure. If, in non-pandemic times, I had lost my job, had my graduation canceled, been forced to cancel the musical, and returned home within the space of a week, I would have felt at least somewhat at fault. I had spent so much time trying to keep it together. I worked hard, so that I wouldn't be fired. I focused on my academics to ensure that I would graduate. I dealt with the myriad challenges of helping to put a musical together. The thought of returning home, short of an immediate mental or physical health crisis, seemed unimaginable until it happened. I struggled to understand the unfairness of it all. As much as I was struggling, I knew that many people had experienced worse injustices at this time.
My creativity slowed. I realized that I had encountered a problem with my belief that failure can contribute to creativity. Artistic failure gives us the opportunity to improve. When we fall down and fall apart in our personal lives, we can use creativity as an outlet to navigate our failure. But, in this instance, I was not the one who had failed. My government had failed to appropriately respond to the pandemic, and to keep us all safe. The healthcare system had failed by not being accessible to everyone who needed help in this challenging time. The systems that had failed us so many times had failed once again, and I did not have the creative bandwidth to process a failure of such magnitude.
Every aspect of my creative life feels different now. As we begin our first virtual finals week, I find myself inching towards the finish line. I have so little energy to give. I used to feel drained after a long day of homework, work, and rehearsal, but now I feel just as drained by the effort it takes to complete a single blog post, Capstone edit, or creative project.
Early in the social isolation process, I saw an Instagram post about reframing these challenging times. Instead of referring to "social isolation," the post suggested reframing this time into an "artist's retreat." On the one hand, I was impressed by this individual's willingness to find positives in a truly terrible time. On the other hand, these weeks have not felt like an artist's retreat to me. During an artist's retreat, I imagine myself feeling at peace about the state of the world outside of my home. I envision myself knowing that I do not need to contact anyone, because my loved ones will all be okay. I would love to feel this sense of peace, to be able to not check the news because it can't be anything bad, and to create from a space of feeling fulfilled. But, fundamentally, I am not in that space. I am tired. The news was bad before the pandemic, and it will continue to fill me with existential dread after the pandemic. I have to stop myself from sending truly alarming emails titled "Please Tell Me You're Alive!" to my friends. It seems that it would be such a privilege to be able to treat a global pandemic raging on as an artist's retreat.
How have you been creatively during the pandemic? Are you more creative? Less creative? Let me know in the comments below!
Best wishes,
Lydia
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