First Scratch

I put my first scratch into the front of my refreshed iPod this past week. It was bound to happen; and now knowing how easy it is to replace these, I'm not that worried about it. In fact, now it feels more mine. It's a tool to be used, not something to sit on a shelf somewhere.

Usually, when I get a new item like this, I'm ultra-precious of it for the first few days. I try and preserve its like-new appearance for as long as I can, shielding it from the rough world. With anything that's meant to be used, scratches arise. I've treated my cameras with care, but they both still have little signs of wear here and there. I don't see this as a problem, but as something to appreciate. The ballpoint pen I carry around is brass under black paint, designed to "brass" like a Leica camera might. The wear shows it's a real item, something important to me that I've treasured through use.

A lot of times, I need to get that first scratch to feel like it's okay to use it freely. I worry about the first scratch, but not the second, third, or hundredth. It's the same as how when I buy a new notebook, I always make the first few pages into an "Index." I only occasionally update them, noting which pages contain what information; the most important part is simply adding a mark to the first few pages. That opens the rest of the book open to me, to be used as I need. I just need to get past the blank page.

This also tracks with how I approach my art-making. When I was trying to get back into writing, I struggled to get my ideas down. I'd block out time to make something, and then when the time came to write, I'd stare at the blank page. I think it's important to have intention while you make art, aiming to produce the best work you can, but I needed the feeling of unimportance to get started. I had to put the first scratch on it, to remind myself this was a tool to be used.

The wear shows it's a real item, something important to me that I've treasured through use

I started by simply writing little paragraphs, descriptions of images that occurred to me: things from my memories, scenes and settings inspired by art I loved. They weren't stories—they didn't need to be. They were just doodles, sketches. What was important was getting something down on the paper, which started opening me up for more considered writing down the road.

In your mind, a work is perfect. The important part is working through it, putting the words on paper, and then giving yourself the possibility to share it with someone else. I've seen so many writers get mired in worldbuilding, but that alone is not art-making. I even find myself frozen any time I need to write a new piece. Without fail, what gets me past that is simply putting my thoughts down on paper, as directly and honestly as I can, and then trying to sort them into a cohesive form later.

It's a tough balance. I think to create art of any value, you need a sense of seriousness, or at least intention, about yourself and your work. If you set out to make something stupid, odds are you'll succeed. Or worse, those feelings are an attempt to protect yourself from the pain of feeling the gap between the work you're able to make, and the perfect work you've envisioned. At the same time, there are times where reminding yourself to stay loose is the only way forward. Don't fear that first scratch—it's a sign you're on the path.