If you’ve ever tried to summarize your past work, but come up stuttering over your words, you are in good company. It’s a hard thing to do as an artist, especially when you’re fairly new to the art world and trying to fit in. It is this challenge, answering the question, “What is your work about?” that has me thinking about breadcrumbs. Instead of trying to come up with a witty and deep statement off the top of our heads, what if we just…look back?
Like Hansel and Gretel, you leave a trail of crumbs behind you: little hints of what pulled your attention, what you kept returning to, and what lit you up. And although you can follow the breadcrumbs to see where you started, they can also lead you forward, toward the work you haven’t made yet.
The tricky part is that when you’re in the middle of making, the trail is hard to see. It takes a pause, and a little honesty, to turn around and notice it. I’ll share how I started following mine six years ago, what I’m seeing now, and a simple exercise you can try today.
Where I started: a past passion and a future intention
Six years ago, I started gathering a body of my past artwork to apply for a studio artist space. I had been working in optometry for so long that anything I’d made was either 20+ years old or brand new. I didn’t have a studio, so the only current work I had was a few 4-inch canvases I painted in my basement.
What was my art about? Were there any patterns emerging from the seemingly random breadcrumbs of my past, and which ones could I actually follow into the future? The application required an artist statement, which turned out to be a great exercise in putting into words who I thought I was as an artist and what I was trying to say with my work. I tied a few things together, but mostly I was just honest that my art was basically a past passion and a future intention. Most of my early work was a response to an assignment in high school or college, not a unique idea I could call my own.
That first artist statement was a bit cringe-worthy, but it was a start. I revised it about once or twice a year early on, and have finally landed on one that still holds up and feels true to where I’m headed.
A letter that gave me permission
That first studio application also required a letter of recommendation. At over 40 years old, I took a deep breath and reached out to my college ceramics professor, who was also the advisor for my Fine Arts minor. This was in the thick of COVID, so I had to get permission through the security office to meet him there. What a sweet day that was! We caught up on the past 20 years, and I shared my new and scary goals to dive back into the art world in a serious way. He listened, and was quietly encouraging. It was a relief to be affirmed in my fragile identity as a new artist.
I’ve held his final sentences from that letter in my mind ever since: “I give Heidi my highest recommendation based on past successes as an artist and scientist and her desire to create new works. The new works will be representative of a new time and space.”
He wasn’t blowing smoke, he meant every word. It was enough to have the desire to create new work. I didn’t have to show an award-worthy portfolio in order to have his highest recommendation. But now I’m struck by the sentence, “The new works will be representative of a new time and space.” Right. Of course my new work would be different. I had lived 20+ years of life since last creating serious work in college.
It really took me several years to relax into this perspective. I finally stopped gripping so tightly to an artificial outcome of “good art,” and started experimenting, following my creative curiosity, and letting go of expectations. Six years after that first application, I’m not striving to be good, or perfect, or accepted. I’m truly enjoying the evolution of my artistic identity by learning, making work, and reveling in the process, and I believe the work is starting to reflect that.
That idea of loving the process turns up in an unlikely place for me: basketball. You might know I’m a big fan, specifically of the Sixers in Philly. If you’re at all tuned into that world, you know that seasoned veteran and all-around superstar LeBron James, 41 years old, joined our team this season. When he talks about sticking with his craft for so long, he keeps coming back to the same idea: “Fall in love with the process, and everything else will take care of itself.” The continuous improvement, the growth, and the work behind the scenes. The studio is no different.
What my breadcrumbs look like now
When I look back now, I can finally see the trail. Favorite color palettes are emerging. There’s a combination of detailed line drawings and unexpected handles on my mugs. I’m still painting a bit, but I’m being pulled more deeply into my ceramic work, and I’m leaning into that.
I’m owning my highly sensitive nature, my obsession with smooth porcelain, and studying the marriage of form, function, and aesthetics. Underneath it all is my scientific enthusiasm for how porcelain and glaze flourish. Topically, a sense of self and home still sits beneath my work, but I’m no longer forcing a theme or subject matter. I’ve narrowed in on mugs and bowls for slow moments at home, and vases and planters for the elevation and celebration of plants. Nature walks have become a necessary morning ritual, and I’m following whatever boosts my health and sparks my sense of aliveness.
I’ve accepted that a deeply intriguing theme hasn’t jumped off the page at me yet. I think I have a lot more art to make before an outside audience will see a strong style and voice emerge. But I know what lights me up, and I know what I and others respond to in my current work, and that feels like solid ground.
Trusting the trail ahead
None of this was visible when I started down this path. I think that’s why this line from Steve Jobs’s 2005 Stanford commencement address has stuck with so many people:
“You can’t connect the dots looking forward. You can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future.”
Trusting the dots is easier when the future feels real to you. Psychologist Hal Hershfield studies how connected people feel to their future selves, and his research shows that when we can picture that person vividly and in a positive light, we’re more willing to make choices today that benefit them down the road.
Most of that research is actually about saving for retirement, but the idea carries over beautifully. It’s funny, my husband is a financial advisor, and we’re often surprised by how much our work overlaps, even though it seems so different on the surface.
Staying tuned to your future self is how you keep your eyes open for the next breadcrumb, and how you keep trusting the dots will connect, even when you can’t see how yet.
I don’t know your path, your breadcrumbs, or what you picture for your future self. But I do hope you can join me in finding the sense of peace that comes with feeling settled in the joy of the process.
Try it yourself
Write your artist statement. Honestly, today. Where have you been, where are you right now, what do you love, and what are you curious about? Then consider going one step further and writing your artist statement at the peak of your career, imagining that future self and making her seem more real.
This exercise might give you glimmers of a future direction of inquiry. And it isn’t just for artists: whether it’s an art career or a creative endeavor of any kind, you can use this same exercise. Look back for the breadcrumbs, look ahead to the person you’re becoming, and enjoy the process of taking the next steps on your trail.
With Enthusiasm for Life + Art,