Artist's Block

Finding Direction (and Inspiration)

This semester, I’ve had the privilege of working with a truly wonderful educator. Her creativity keeps everyone engaged, yet she never loses her sense of structure and discipline. Watching her balance both has been inspiring—it’s exactly the kind of teacher I hope to become.

About halfway through the semester, she mentioned the idea of doing a private study together next spring—an independent study! Before she even finished the sentence, I was nodding. Yes! Of course, I wanted to keep working with her—and keep drawing. Absolutely, yes.

A couple of weeks ago, we sat down to go over the details: the paperwork, expectations, how many hours I’d need to log, and how often we’d meet. “Start thinking,” she said, “about what direction you’d like to go. Keep it broad, though.”

Simple enough, I thought.

Then came a night where I woke at 3 a.m., wide awake and staring at the ceiling, suddenly panicking. What direction did I want to go? Could I really pull this off? I kept circling around the idea of impermanence— how you could show evidence of change in a drawing. What would that even look like? How do you start something like that? How would I keep myself engaged?

This wasn’t just a class I could personalize—it would test whether I could truly work independently, as an artist.

The Puppet and the Panic

That same week in class, we were assigned a 3D project. After a week of construction, we’d be asked to draw it. We had three options to choose from, and I picked the third: make a “life-size” puppet (though the parameters were intentionally broad).

I came into class loaded down with wire, paper, a Styrofoam head, flour, dead leaves scavenged from campus, a clothes hanger, string, and an old shirt. (Basically, I looked like I was about to build either art—or a giant trash pile.) I was fixated on the idea of decay—not just because it was October—but because I couldn’t stop thinking about impermanence, about how everything breaks down and changes eventually.

Paper-mâché in hand, I started building. It was messy, fun, instinctual. The finished puppet was just as I’d imagined—someone described it as “a body found in the woods.” Perfect. Success! I knew exactly how I wanted to draw it.

My 'puppet'

Thursdays progress was much better than what happened on Tuesday

Meanwhile in painting....

And then came Tuesday.

The Artist’s Block

Everyone’s heard of writer’s block. Artists have their own version of it. Mine feels cyclical—like I can predict the crash right after a creative high. Tuesday was that crash. I walked into class already feeling it. But I couldn’t skip painting or drawing—attendance matters, and so does my grade—so I stayed, working aimlessly.

During drawing, my professor noticed and asked, “What’s going on?”

“I’m having an off day,” I admitted.

“Well,” she said kindly, “you’re allowed to have those.”

I had planned a self-portrait—lit from below, puppet looming behind me—but I couldn’t make the composition work. The lighting was wrong. The space was too small. Everything I sketched felt flat or predictable, and drawing the puppet alone was boring. It wasn’t my day. And that was okay. Thursday would be better.

Finding My Thread

On Thursday our homework was due: find five artists and make thumbnail sketches of their work. It was Wednesday and I was still (quietly) panicking about my upcoming independent study—what theme would I pursue? Where would I start?

I kept coming back to impermanence, to decay, to how nothing lasts. I was also frustrated because I hadn’t found any contemporary artists who had really caught my attention.

I fed an image of my puppet and my drawing into AI per my professor's suggestion. I was wondering if it would help me find artists similar to my style. That’s when I stumbled onto the work of Jenny Saville and Anselm Kiefer. Instantly, I was hooked. Their work felt raw and honest—messy in the most beautiful way. And mixed materials galore! Exactly what I was looking for.

As I flipped through their artworks, I thought about how much I’d loved the tactile chaos of building my puppet—the layering, the tearing, the hands-on-ness of it all. I went to bed that night with their images in my head.

And then came the dreams—the kind where you’re technically asleep but feel like you’ve worked all night. I woke up buzzing.

What if I combined everything—drawing, sculpture, paper-mâché—into large, layered pieces? What if imperfection and impermanence became my medium, not just my theme? It was more exciting than just drawing. Or just painting.

For the first time in weeks, I felt clear. I had a place to begin.

Reflection

Looking back, I realize that this whole process—the panic, the puppet, the creative block—was its own kind of lesson. The independent study hasn’t even officially begun, and yet it’s already teaching me what I most need to learn: how to trust the unknown.

I’ve spent years chasing structure, trying to make every project make sense from the start. But maybe the real work of being an artist—and a teacher—is learning to stay present in the uncertainty, and to find direction through the act of doing. Because sometimes the clearest path forward begins in the mess.

I'll keep you updated on how that goes...

Sincerely,

Rebekah