Turns out my extinction-level event doesn’t need AI. It has a paintbrush.
We, as a species, currently seem intent on creating an extinction-level event for ourselves (or letting AI do the job more efficiently). But I want to talk about a much less explored method of self-destruction: art-related injuries.
Many people stop making art once they’re out of school. I guess I’m an outlier. I missed the memo that said “creativity expires with your student ID.”
My creative process has always been more like a firehose than a dripping faucet. It comes out fast and furious. Sleep, food, and personal hygiene drop off the radar until I find myself in an exhausted heap on the floor next to some sort of concoction that may or may not make sense to anyone (including me) by morning.
If I had to explain this in a meme:
No one: …
Me: Here’s a whole set of inner-voices cards nobody asked for, created by vibe-coding non-stop for several days!*
No one: …
Me: …
*Vibe-coding: the process of building an app entirely on instinct, hope, and Frappuccinos, wherein you understand roughly 4% of what you just did but it works, so you back away slowly and never touch it again.
Luckily, my friends know to send out a search party if they haven’t heard from me in a while (or if Find Friends says I’m in the produce section, squeezing mangoes with the confidence of someone who definitely knows what she’s doing).
Trying to stop the creative firehose when it hits feels like walking past the craft store “just to look.”
An idea will show up around 7pm and stand there, tapping its foot… just as I’ve closed my iPad and told myself, tonight… I rest! I’ll pretend I have boundaries for about two minutes. Then I’m reopening it, grunting at myself, because apparently the idea knew “tonight I rest” was wishful thinking before I did.
These days I’m too lazy to get up and work at a proper desk or easel, so I end up hunched over my lap desk on the couch.
I wish I could tell you I’ll develop the self-discipline to sit properly when the creative urge strikes. Alas, in those moments my self-discipline has the staying power of a cat who just spotted a laser pointer.
So for the last few weeks, my shoulders have been up around my ears and I’ve dug out my Shakti pillow (aka the acupressure pillow). If you’ve been lucky enough to never use one, consider yourself blessed. It’s basically a bed of nails with better branding.
The Shakti pillow doesn’t nag. It just sits there… with its spikes pointing viciously in my direction, doing its best “who, me?” impression: Come closer, I won’t hurt you. Maybe just a little, at first.
Any creatives out there suffering from art-related injuries, I see you.
I’m sure that one day we’ll pass each other in the waiting room of our therapist’s office (when we’re ready to face our refusal to “ergonomically adult”). In the meantime, may your Shakti pillow be gentler than your inner critic, and may your next act of self-destruction end in a half-decent painting.
