Rebuilding a Relationship with Discomfort
The negative stuff is much a part of creativity as the pleasure
I don’t know about you, but this photo makes me squirm.
Standing on the edge of this precipice has real potential to kill someone if they’re pushed or they slip. Those possibilities, however unlikely in my case, would completely override any enjoyment I might get from the view in that spot.
Avoiding discomfort is a natural human tendency.
We’re hardwired to see uncertainty as a risk or threat. Those unpleasant feelings can become a significant barrier to learning, future growth, and ultimately performance. Perfectionism doesn’t help either.
Every day we’re reminded by the media and our own observations and experiences that our lives are difficult. Then the flood of advertising promises all manner of relief if we just buy “solutions.”
How many times have your creative endeavors been more a source of frustration than pleasure? I know I keep repeating the lesson that discomfort is an expected and normal part of learning.
Comfort can be a trap.
When the pandemic started, I was lucky to already have a safe home to retreat to. The grocery store created the safety needed to pick up food and supplies. The few people we saw cooperated with masks and social distancing. And we went almost nowhere anyway. We cocooned in our nest.
For relief from the unrelenting fear of COVID, I became an expert at avoiding inconvenience, distress, or anything else that caused me discomfort. In the process, I lost a lot of my ability to cope, be patient with uncertainty, and roll with the punches.
Not good.
My new open-arms approach to discomfort.
Well, not completely open. I’ve started with a few low-distress situations to stretch my mental muscles about this. I donated a few small art pieces to a local fundraiser and attended an art-related gathering I’d never been to. My current creative activities—writing, quilting, art, etc.—generate plenty of uneasiness, yet the stakes are low. Maybe too low.
Going old-school with letterpress
I decided to learn something I’ve never done before. Stretch myself.
I’m a member of a local art center which features vintage, fully operational letterpress machines. Before computers, these machines mass-produced almost every paper-based item such as newspapers, magazines, and labels on goods. When the art center recently offered a class on letterpress printing, I thought it would be a good way to assess just how much trouble I’m in when I go way outside my comfort zone.
Turns out, I’m in a lot of trouble.
The heart of the printing system is the “form” you see above. I learned to select, place, and lock type into the frame (“chase”). Then came preparing the rotary press to hold the frame, load the paper, and print the piece manually, one sheet at time. All of this involved handling really tiny pieces, especially type; learning strange terms (quoins, furniture [not what you’d think], California job case, composing stick, the type-high standard, tympan sheet); and constantly having to ask the instructor where to find various tools located across the two floors of the facility.
It was the most complicated activity I’ve tried in years. Instead of enjoying the class, I was completely uncomfortable through all six hours of it, even to the point of stomach distress. Almost enough to quit halfway through. I was surprised at my strong negative reaction to something that wasn’t even life-threatening.
I managed to finish the lessons, though, producing this masterpiece which features a haiku poem I wrote for printing practice.
What I learned.
On the way home after the first 3-hour session, I decided to leave the class. During the following week, though, I talked myself into going back for the second one. That session turned out to be far less upsetting (surroundings more familiar, instructor more helpful). More important, I’m really pleased I stuck with it.
For future challenges, I’ll research the uncertainties ahead of time. Those could include the topic of a class or event, its location, where to park, etc.
I feel a little more capable. I like that feeling, so I’ll continue practicing discomfort.
Thanks for reading!
—Mary Anne Shew (IG @shewphotos)