Too often, I hear fellow artists such as yourself saying, “I’m my own toughest critic. I’m afraid to take any risks because the voice of my inner critic is so harsh.” To which I respond, “Stop bothering me with your nonsense, can’t you see I’m busy?”
I happen to know I actually am my own toughest critic — much tougher than your inner critic, I’m sure. I know this because I have yet to meet a single person with the training and insight necessary to adequately criticize my art. If those perturbed shrugs of yours are what passes for criticism these days, then I fear for the quality of our cultural landscape.
As my own toughest critic, I am able to assess the quality of my work more astutely than anyone. This skill allows me to make immediate and precise corrections to anything I do that fails to meet my specific standards — standards that value the qualities found in work created by me, and not someone else.
Take, for example, my recent watercolor portrait of Christina Aguilera. After dampening my brush to apply a wash of color to her cheeks, I realized that, in my paint mixture, I had chosen to use peanut butter that was chunky, rather than smooth. My inner critic was quick to point out that this might give the viewer the impression that Ms. Aguilera suffers from a peanut allergy (which, according to my research, she does not). So, I quickly modified my technique and borrowed a jar of Simply Jif Creamy from my elderly neighbor’s cupboard while she was napping.
You might say my capacity for self-criticism is my biggest strength — the talent that makes all my other talents shine so brightly compared to whatever it is you call that garbage you’re producing.
I challenge anyone to even pay attention to my artwork, let alone scrutinize its every nuance and describe it as eloquently as my inner critic, who, you should know, studied at CalArts, wears a long scarf and goes by the name Xavier Formaggio, PhD.
Consider for a moment, my latest site-specific dance piece entitled Flailing Man — about a man (me) dancing awkwardly close to an ATM while people enter their PIN numbers.
My inner critic (who we can just call Xavi) praised its bold exploration of interpersonal space in the age of technology and marveled at its use of flowing Christmas tinsel, but he was ultimately taken aback by the violent spontaneity of the audience participation elements. In response, I improvised a piece of choreography in which I curled up and rocked gently on the pavement. Xavi called it, “Devastating…” and said, “…The hard-hitting, handbag-to-the-head moment left me breathless.”
I have many, many examples to help you understand why my inner critic is better than yours. Like the time I was exploring work inspired by late-’80s street art, and Xavi described my spray-can technique as “derivative.” It hurt my feelings, but it was his input that convinced me to add an angry duck next to the word “Fascist” on the piece I created on the side of the Toyota Camry operated by the parking enforcement officer who booted my car.
The main difficulty with having an inner critic as sophisticated as Xavi is that I’m often thrown into situations where I’m forced to meet other artists and socialize — while Xavi is there, in my mind, tearing their work to shreds, saying things like, “Guggenheim-schmuggenheim. This work will never amount to anything if he insists on serving such a sub-par cheese plate.”
For this reason, I decided to give Xavi an outlet for his wisdom and let him help me write a self-help book, that will possibly help you as well. The book is called Stop Being a Piece of Sh*t: How to Silence Your Inner Critic and Listen to Mine Instead. I wanted to call it Shut up and Let Me Think: Why Buying this Book will Make You a Better Artist and Hopefully Get Capital One to Stop Hounding Me but Xavi said it was, “a worthless title — no one will buy it.”
The book will guide aspiring artists through the steps it takes to finally create work that doesn’t completely suck — but also isn’t so good that they snag the $900 grant from the Deney Terrio Fund for Mid-Career Artists, which I’m counting on to help me afford the large quantities of cologne that Xavi insists upon wearing.
I was recently interviewed by Xavi on the podcast I do in the cabinet under my sink. He asked me, “What are you hoping people will get out of this book?” I thought for a moment and answered as honestly as I could: “I really hope people will get a sense of what it’s like to live under the soul-crushing oppression of your relentless nitpicking.” It was a fascinating nine-hour discussion and is available for listening on your shortwave FM transmitter, DVD-ROM burner, or wherever you listen to such things.
The book is slated to hit the shelves of your favorite bookstore just as soon as the philistines at Harper-Collins figure out how to open the carton containing the manuscript — a package I painstakingly decorated using the feathers and entrails of the bird that died in my yard last week. A move Xavi called, “Daring… Provocative.”