In Practice

I want to be inspired. For some part of me to be loosened or nudged awake. I gather my things—camera, Eileen Myles’ A Working Life (new), Rosalind Brown’s Practice (a re-read), and decide that I’ll sit somewhere with coffee and a pastry, read a little, take some photos, and do something deliberate with the few hours between dropping the kids off at school and my eye appointment.

The café is mostly empty. A woman picks up a birthday cake while another woman sits by the window, her back to me. I ordered a yuzu-and-sesame croissant. The croissant flakes onto the plate as I cut into it; the yuzu filling is bright and sweet. It’s excellent. The photographs I take are not.

No one watches me. But I hesitate before taking another photo. I lift my camera, feeling exposed and uncertain. The photos are underwhelming. Lost between intent and execution. I scroll through them, and a familiar disappointment tightens in my chest. I want to be good immediately. I place this impossible expectation on myself every time I begin something new, as if curiosity begets competence.

Even alone, I fear being seen as trying or as incompetent. Maybe it’s the inescapable tyranny of being the eldest Asian daughter. Fear of imperfection. Of stepping out of line. Do not fail, but if you must, fail in private.

When I feel uncertain, I reach for books. This is my oldest instinct, so I went to the bookstore. I chose Orion Carloto (Film for Her) and Sally Mann (Art Work: On the Creative Life), both writer-photographers. I feel something shift as I skim the pages of their books. Maybe a door opening, and a direction to head towards.

I forget who, but a writer once said (and I’m paraphrasing here), You write a lot of terrible work before you write anything good. You must get it out of your system. Exorcise it. Otherwise, it stays lodged there, blocking everything that might come next.

So this is that. A small exorcism. Disappointing photographs. A very good croissant. Some writing. A few hours spent in discomfort instead of retreating from it. I made something, even if it wasn’t good. Practice, practice, practice.