The Pattern Predicament

The human brain is a wrinkly wad of awesome, isn't it? Unbelievable computational power, incredible capacity for creative thinking, a seemingly infinite imagination, rich with emotion, avid problem solver, hefty memory depot—what all those little connections can do is truly amazing. With all its little mechanisms that lend so much meaning, dimension, and depth to our experience, it's done a superb job shepherding us through evolution. 

Yet by the same token, when it comes to realistic equine art some of those little mechanisms can become glitchy liabilities. And perhaps one of the main mechanisms to get glitchy is the pattern recognition response, our brain's obsessive and absurdly efficient ability to identify, establish, and predict patterns. Evolution equipped us with this to immediately and instinctively learn from something to then make actionable predictions for future survival. So much so, in fact, that one could argue that the human brain is pretty much just a pattern recognition machine...that's it. This makes perfect sense though since nature is based on patterns—patterns of migration, patterns of cause and effect, patterns of physical forces, patterns of animal behavior, patterns of plant growth, patterns of human behavior, patterns of weather, etc. Even DNA and the planets have their patterns as do subatomic particles. Math, language, art theory, music. Science is simply a formalized means to discover new patterns. Recognizing faces, daily routines, our personalities, and our habits are all based on patterns. Buying trends, social interactions, traditions and holidays, and even consumer reviews are pattern based. Social media algorithms are based on our behavior patterns as are the associated ads that pelt us. And on and on. And for equine realism, just the same, we have patterns of color, biomechanics, anatomy, and behavior as well as patterns in how we use our media and techniques and tools. Patterns even establish our artistic style. Everywhere we look—patterns. It's no surprise then why the brain is so fixated on them. In fact, it's so fixated that it'll even make patterns up where none exist and so we have logic fallacies, superstition, "lucky streaks," conspiracy theories, etc. 

And all these patterns—real or false—create correlations that help us make sense of the world around us. And so it is with equine realism, too, as pattern recognition helps us decipher chaotic, organic structures to better recreate them. Really, the more biological patterns we recognize—such as muscle configurations, skeletal structure, biomechanics, symmetry, physics, pigmentation, markings, coat effects, etc.—the more technically accurate our work. And don't we often refer to charts, illustrations, and diagrams? Those are simply codified patterns. And each equine species is simply a unique variation on the "master pattern" for the genus. Age and gender characteristics are still more variations as are breed type and conformation. It just goes on and on. Put it all together then, when we "improve," we're really learning how to expand and finesse our pattern library. That's to say, learning is really a by-product of improved pattern recognition and translation into our media.

It's an easy conclusion then to believe that once we establish accurate patterns, we'll automatically recreate more realistic work by default, yes? It's like following a recipe. A creative autopilot. It's inevitable. Hey—we got the pattern down so we got it made, right?

Well, not really.

The Conundrum

When it comes to realistic equine art, patterns are really funny things. They're definitely super handy guides, but they can also become prisons of our own making, clever traps, safe cages, limiting comfort zones. They can even skew us away from realism. See, Nature is just too variable for a few fixed patterns to explain it all. So what we expect based on our accustomed patterns and what nature actually presents us can sharply diverge at times, especially if our fixed patterns develop a stronger hold on our perception. How curious that those very aspects of our process we tend to rely on most have the greatest potential to stifle our progress.  

Life is just far messier than the human mind tends to prefer. Defined by "organic chaos," reality is packed full of happenstance variable complexities that lend so much possibility. In response, our brain may manipulate data, even filter it, to force a simpler version it can detect and process more easily. In doing so, it can also oversimplify and homogenize things to create a more formulaic, regimented, and predictable pattern. In short, it can actually impose too much order in its enthusiasm to make sense out of chaos. From this comes our conventional, habitual thinking which, while definitely useful, can make us increasingly blind to other—and sometimes more realistic—options. This familiar formula can then become "what looks right" to us even though nature doesn't always fit into our safe expectations. Really, what nature shows us and what our brain tells us aren't always the same thing. Staying open to organic chaos then, working to find those things that exist beyond our expectations, helps to re-inject missing information. Put another way, realistic work isn't just about where it's consistent to nature's patterns, but where it's inconsistent to our own safe, formulaic interpretations, too. Understanding biological patterns is absolutely necessary—yes—however, it's also smart to think of them as baselines rather than unquestionable dogma, more as springboards into possibility.

So, say, we're ticking a sabino....notice how quickly our hand starts to tick in a regular pattern? Even timed regularly? Tick tick tick. And perhaps right under our noses! Or we can fall into an anatomical formula for muscle configurations—even regardless of the pose—when nature can be far more surprising. Or we can adopt patterns of preference, e.g. that certain breeds should look a "correct," "proper" way when a slew of acceptable variations, as well as individual eccentricities, actually exist. So very quickly we can unconsciously adopt favored patterns as sacrosanct doctrine, and being content with that, we let our pattern recognition response go unchallenged. Now this is fine if we're happy with that but what happens when we start to chafe at this kind of limitation?

The Caveat

Sure, our familiar patterns are safe, proven, comfortable, and easy. They're also probably most attractive to us, what "looks right" to us. They also help to make our process less confounding and maddening. And all that's great! There's nothing wrong with relying on a trusty formula to help us recreate this very difficult subject. Practically speaking, too, we need to have a place to start. Yet those connected dots belong to a living creature and so don't always align with our assuring, safe expectations. Indeed, sometimes they outright contradict them.

Because there's a trade-off to safety and comfort—we risk creatively plateauing. Repeatedly following the same formula can result in a homogenized, predictable body of work, which could even end up presenting an incomplete picture of reality. So, for example, if our stylistic pattern is a high degree of crisp muscle definition, we may sculpt every breed like that only because it "looks right" to us. Or we may apply the safe and familiar standing anatomy chart to all our moving depictions even though motion morphs flesh, sometimes to the point of being unrecognizable. Or more subtly, we "Arabianize" everything with big eyes and small muzzles simply because we unconsciously favor that pattern of characteristics. Of course, all of this isn't a problem given it continues to work in our favor, but chances are there will come a time when we're going to abut against a wall, and not knowing why, end up thinking that's the extent of our talent. It's not...it's simply the extent of our pattern library.

Another trade-off we risk is amplifying our blind spots as our comfort zones entrench unchecked. This is because pattern recognition fixes not only what we See but also what we don't See; what we don't See is as much a pattern as anything else. Now, granted, everyone has blindspots. And no one can duplicate nature exactly—only nature can do that. And the complexity of nature is so immense, it's an awful lot for anyone to process. So blindspots are inevitable no matter how advanced we get. We're human. But by the same token, rooting them out is a factor in our improvement. Don't we practice artistic exercises to see our piece with new eyes to improve? Don't we enlist critiques for a new look that may not have the same blindspots we do? If we aren't actively challenging our pattern recognition response with each piece then, we may end up missing these hidden opportunities for growth.

However, whatever satisfaction we derive from formula is perfectly fine, but that said, there's a difference between technical accuracy and living accuracy. For instance, the former is what we'd find in a good anatomy chart whereas the latter is how living anatomy actually manifests within a "living moment." There are limitations to the anatomy charts that don't exist in life. So with this understanding, we may choose to become braver in our choices to test the limits of our perceived patterns. Now admittedly, everyone has different ambitions for their work and different tastes, but it's something to think about.

This is because our perception—which is different for everyone—actively filters and processes data from the world around us. Each of us is a complete, a self–contained frame of reference with a unique reality. This is why people will see things differently in a horse though they share a similar degree of savvy. People just key in on different things. But this also means that certain features may not be seen in the same way either. And there's this, too: What we cannot See is more powerful in our work than what we can because, like dark matter, it invisibly influences everything we create. This is exactly how blindspots work. So let's say we cannot see the inverted "9" pattern of a nostril so we create one incorrectly. Error #1. But not being able to see that pattern also means we place it too high on the head. Error #2. As a result, we end up misshaping the "flute" of the nostril. Error #3. So an incomplete pattern can result in a cascade of unSeen consequences.  

To this end, it's good to have an idea how our brain is going to wrestle with us. First, it will automatically and immediately recognize patterns the moment it processes something. We can't stop it—it's a hardwired response. As such, our brain is quick to pounce on anything that appears consistent, eager to translate it into a fact. But not all seeming consistencies are correlated and so some of our generated patterns may be unreliable. And if we hold onto them too tightly, we even risk cognitive dissonance when presented with more factual ones. Nevertheless, we can manipulate its enthusiasm by feeding it many patterns so it can make more comparisons. Indeed, comparative study is a terrific way to program in more reliable patterns plus their options, letting us learn more and faster. 

Second, it will try to convince us that the patterns it recognizes are absolutely reliable, self-evident and factual. And perhaps they are. But how are we sure? Having a little Yes Man in our heads may be great for morale, but when it comes to recreating reality, a degree of skepticism is useful. That Yes Man makes sense though, evolutionarily speaking. Those who couldn't quickly connect growls and claws to death, certain plants to sickness or death, the changing seasons to the scarcity of winter, or the cause and effect of developing tools just didn't thrive. So let's say a lion jumped out at us from a rustling bush and we survived that encounter. Now if a bush rustles again, we'll spook, right? Better safe than sorry! The point is, our established patterns are real to us by default and applicable to every situation until we think, "wait a minute." And this is exactly the periodic reflection we need to manage this artistic Yes Man in our heads. Because we're never going to shut him up—he's hardwired. But we can put him to better use by training him to periodically ask "wait a minute" so he's not always affirming everything we do at face value. Now we don't have to do this all the time as that can get tedious and exhausting. Instead, just asking this question every now and again about our work can be enough to keep us growing. 

Third, our brain is easily seduced by order, by formula and simplicity, and so it will always gravitate towards it. This means that reassuring, tidy anatomical chart will be more tempting than that confounding reference photo. Yet this is exactly where oversimplification can set in even though the living body is full of much more information. Just attend a dissection to see just how much information is missing from an anatomical chart! Or watch horses move and it's clear things shift away from the orderly anatomical formulas rather quickly. This tug of war between what our brain wants to impose and what life actually presents us is constant so unless we're careful, order tends to win even at the expense of facts. As such, we're faced with a curious pickle: Our art form is based on both order and chaos, both need to be present. An anatomy chart is a great comfort for sure, and it is based on the mother plan for the animal, but it still needs to be fleshed out with information derived from the living animal. In other words, the chart is the start, not the end.

But our brain's penchant for oversimplification isn't such a bad thing. In fact, we can improve our process if we know how to manipulate it. We're probably already working "big to small," right? Working on the big picture first then moving onto detailed finessing? Or put another way, we're starting with an oversimplified overarching pattern to then progressively graduate down to the complicated little patterns? Learn to harness this by breaking it up like a Matryoshka doll and we can speed up our process and infuse more information into each "layer." We just need to stay on top of it to make sure it's still not filtering things a snidge too aggressively, that it's letting us go far enough on the data hunt. Oversimplification can work for things like abstract work, of course, but for our purposes, we need a lot more information. For instance, intermediates can hit a wall here not due to lack of skill but because enough information still isn't getting to their hands. In this, they may stop too soon with a dappled sooty palomino, for example, and miss on the extra details and touches that would make it more convincing...then becoming frustrated thinking they're incapable. But if they keep going through the blockade imposed by their overzealous pattern recognition response, they could discover more data. And over-filtering happens a lot faster than we may realize if we aren't periodically asking, "wait a minute." See, mastering the formula is the easy part. It just takes training and diligence, just like any other skill. And it's definitely a reliable route towards accuracy, like cooking from a surefire recipe. As any great chef knows though, having a great recipe maybe be awesome, but knowing how to tweak it is even better.

Fourth, pattern recognition is malleable, vulnerable to conditioning and peer pressure. If we're exposed to a pattern for a long time, it can become imprinted as preferred. It's why many of us prefer Mom's home cooking, for example. And the same kinda goes for our aesthetics. Many of us were raised on Maureen Love's work, for instance, and so we may have a penchant for her specific interpretation—we've become conditioned to favor it. (Granted, her work is incredible so it's no surprise why it's so popular.) And if many of us have the same reaction, that creates a social pressure which can be strong enough to influence everything, even cause the groupthink to filter out viable options or different interpretations as inferior or wrong even if they're more factual. For instance, Love work is often typified by crisp muscle definition repeatedly configured in a similar anatomical pattern paired with a mirror-smooth surface. This makes sense when sculptures are designed for directional airbrushing in a factory because the glazing outcome is amazing. However, nature often presents a different picture, and so those styles that explore those options can become unjustly penalized when they may actually be okay, and perhaps even more realistic. This can cause some artists to doubt their Eye even when they're right, or on the other hand, adopt stylistic contrivances they otherwise wouldn't have, compelling a kind of worrisome homogenization to what the groupthink considers "right." Even more, peer pressure can favor the lowest common dominator, those things that have just enough information stripped out to appeal to the widest audience. Indeed, many horse enthusiasts often don't See the same things an advanced equine artist Sees. Truth be told, many enthusiasts have a very safe, very rudimentary understanding of structure, texture, motion, pattern and color with very little understanding of the viable options. In turn, things that have more information or "flavor" tend to lose a foothold not being so well understood. Really, plain chocolate cake appeals to a lot more people than chili chocolate cake. For instance then, those pieces with more of a hide texture can find disfavor in lieu of the conditioned preference for mirror-smooth surfaces. Now absolutely, we all love different interpretations for our own reasons and that's wonderful! Even so though, keeping our minds open to the viable possibilities—especially when they don't appeal to us aesthetically—gives a lot more room for exploration of life's possibilities. Keeping honest tabs on our own pattern recognition response gives room for others explore their own. Which brings us to...

Fifth, the pattern recognition response tends to act in one of two ways when presented with a new—especially a contradicting—pattern: fear or curiosity. Our brain holds onto its familiar patterns quite tightly since they construct and affirm our own version of reality. And yes, though our brain likes to learn, that first gut response is still either alarm or inquiry when faced with the unknown. And the more "imposing" the unknown, the stronger this effect. This means that how we emotionally respond to new patterns will shape the nature of our work. So, for instance, if we're knee-jerk resistant to new viable patterns out of a fear response, our work simply won't evolve to its true potential. We may even become blind to what our references and field study are actually revealing. Or we may doubt ourselves when we implement those facts because it "looks wrong" compared to our good ol' familiar patterns. Blindspots can entrench, even amplify, yet we may become confused as to why our work has plateaued or even devolved. It's not for lack of talent, it's for a lack of compensating curiosity. 

Sixth, pattern recognition is similarly sensitive to the influence of our fears. It actually takes quite a bit of optimism, risk-taking, and frivolity to throw caution into the wind to break from our comfortable habits—and especially from peer pressure—particularly when we expect to encounter disapproval. The truth is that in order to more fully explore life's options, we have to be willing to become uncomfortable, insecure, confused, and unsure. Breaking our own conventions is all about busting out of our own box—and breaking from peer pressure will mean busting out of really big boxes—and that's always going to entail a degree of recklessness. And that's not for everyone, and that's okay. As long as we understand how our pattern recognition is reacting, we can allow others their own explorations without undue judgment or blowback.

The Upside

But no worries—pattern recognition isn't all bad! Really, if we think of it more as a tool, it can become an incredibly powerful one because, once managed, it can make our process go faster while teasing out more data. Practically speaking, too, connecting the dots as accurately and quickly as we can is sound strategy. Sure, it's following a formula, but it still guides us towards accuracy, no? It also provides a neutral baseline for variations to pop out more readily. We have to start somewhere, right? 

What's more, each of us has our own unconscious guiding aesthetic patterns, i.e. what tells us to keep going as we work, to fix something, or to stop because it looks done. And because each of us operates within our own perception, we each have our own unique viewpoint on that. And that's great! Why? Well, it's the seat of artistic style! Our aesthetic patterns imprint right into our work, becoming that wonderful artistic fingerprint which makes our work so distinctive, lending aesthetic diversity to this art form that broadens its appeal. Just as importantly, too, it keeps a relatively technical art form from becoming sterile, stagnant, and soulless. 

We're also fallible human beings who'll never be able to duplicate life's patterns in total accuracy. So no matter how vigorously we address our own patterns, we'll always have blindspots and stylistic divergences. And that's okay! It makes our efforts interesting and gives us new challenges we might want to chase. We also get the opportunity to learn a whole lot more about this wondrous animal, deepening our fascination and commitment. There's a lot to be said for a carrot at the end of a stick!

Knowing the anatomical pattern also provides the lengths and bend points to create armatures as well as the planes and masses for bulking up a sculpture. Breed patterns allow us to establish "Saddlebredness" or "Thoroughbredness" or "Clydesdaleness" right into the armature, too. Likewise, asses, mules, onagers, and zebras, and all the rest, each have their own distinctive body patterns. And knowing the distinctive patterns for white markings or sooty factor or dappling and the like also lets us place pigments in more effective ways from the onset. In short, knowing over-arching patterns helps us create a cheat sheet for working not only faster, but smarter.

What's more, learning to break down the complex, interwoven biological patterns for Equus into simpler patterns, layered like an onion, provides us with an information-packed model with a logical progression. Need more stuff? Just layer on another pattern. Remember those books with the thin transparent paper that layered on the horse's anatomy with every page turn? Kinda like that. (Just be careful. In our enthusiasm here, we may begin to fixate intently on all this detail, giving it all equal emphasis to create sculptures that resemble 3D anatomy charts rather than actual living horses. In life, all this information has its own ebb and flow in emphasis so there's usefulness in knowing when to sculpt "tight" and when to "loosen.")

Workarounds

So since we cannot break the spell of our pattern recognition response, we can still manage it pretty well. For starters, we can approach patterned, tedious work in random spurts rather than all at once. Taking breaks while we tick tick tick, for instance, can really help prevent this mechanism from taking too strong a hold. It also gives us the mental space to rest and ask, "wait a minute." But it's important to keep these breaks random rather than at fixed intervals. Know it or not, our brain will create a pattern from those expected breaks which can subtly influence the pattern we're creating. Keep things as spontaneous as possible. When trying to duplicate organic chaos then, keep the brain off kilter, always guessing. Indeed, thanks to pattern recognition, recreating life's organic chaos is the most difficult effect to achieve in clay or pigment from fleshy texture to hair's passive physics to the happenstance of white markings to the complex pigmentation of hooves, and on and on. Even computers can't crank out truly random numbers because the algorithms they depend on have their own kind of pattern. As any savvy artist will tell ya...it's not order that's hard to create, it's randomness!

Another trick is to dampen our preconceived notions about whatever it is we're about to do. Indeed, the moment we inject prejudgment into our mix, our trusty old patterns are going to kick even before we start. They may even create a barrier of resistance. So actively look for novelty, look for those things different from our habitual interpretations. And it doesn't have to be a massive deviation...even just a little bit counts. In this, think about establishing "discovery goals." For example, ponder, "How can I sculpt the pecs differently than I have before?" Then actively look for those suitable pecs that deviate from what we've already done—or even better, from what we expect. They're out there. Or if we tend to paint bays in a certain way, look for references that break from that habit. Deliberately searching for differences to rattle our own cage can become a kind of treasure hunt that will refine our eye, deepen our portfolio and, more importantly, make things a lot more curious and fun. 

Think about simplifying the body into essential curves, shapes, and lines, abstracting the subject rather than only looking through the lens of an anatomy chart. An anatomy chart can develop an overriding hold on our aesthetic expectation and that's great—to a point. As we grow, we may eventually want to create beyond its training wheels, move past its limitations, but if its grip is too strong, the options may look "too weird" to our conditioned Eye and so we unconsciously default back to formula. But abstracting the subject—deconstructing them—can help break this hold by forcing the brain to find new patterns without the bias of cemented anatomical patterns. Indeed, what we expect to see will influence what we actually end up Seeing so change those expectations and we'll start to See new things. Bringing us to...

Another effective workaround is to break up an existing pattern into smaller ones, removing the distraction of the overall pattern our brain may fixate on. For instance, cut a hole in a sheet of white printer paper, say 1" for an 8x11 image (smaller for smaller images or for the face). Now run that hole over the photo of the horse, studying closely what's inside the frame without expectation. Notice all the new information that just seems to appear? See all the little details, textures, and contours now? Our brain is no longer distracted by the familiar, dominant pattern of "whole horse" and so focuses on the new patterns, revealing what was perhaps so subtle or tiny, it went overlooked.

Another trick is to study the image upside down or backwards in a mirror, doing the same with the piece we're working on. This snaps new patterns to the forefront to compel our brain to rethink things, forcing it to ask, "wait a minute." Shrinking or enlarging our reference photos to match our piece can be helpful, too, by providing a more direct comparison. Or why not really shake it up? Work upside down! Turn those references over, too. Similarly, turn reference photos into greyscale to rattle our pattern recognition cages harder. Or invert the colors and now look at all the "new" information that instantly pop out. Cage busted! Indeed, patterns that were hidden before now become really obvious. Especially useful for paintwork, these techniques can really help our brain see things in whole new ways.

Yet another is to pick a specific pose, stay a 3/4 view trot (gosh knows there's plenty of those around). Then amass plenty of references of that exact pose and angle, within breeds and even across breeds. Now compare, even using the paper-hole method on each image if needed. Where are they similar? Where are they different? Now compile lots of images of that pose from different angles and do the same. Truly, it's amazing what can be learned from comparative study! Doing all this repeatedly, especially with our references for a sculpture or paint job, really helps to tease out the options outside of our safe expectations. It's often not enough to have one or two references for any given piece much of the time since having multiple references provides a buffet of options for more strategic choices, especially when it comes to sculpture. Because here's the thing, the less actual information we have, the more our pattern recognition response fills in the gaps, and it does this by defaulting to the familiar menu of our habitual patterns bound by the limitations of our mental library. To compensate then, these comparative exercises expand our mental library to provide more "gap filler" fodder. So while our habits certainly help us complete a piece, wouldn't it be nice to have more choices? 

Final Thoughts

Always coming to this animal with fresh Eyes broadens our creative horizons. Our habits definitely help us along, making sense of what we're doing to boost our confidence, but only if we avoid becoming a slave to them. Knowing how to manipulate our predilections through an awareness of our pattern recognition response lets us benefit from their useful guidance while still enjoying artistic freedom. It's all about choice, the power to consciously decide rather than an unknowing compulsion to follow. Really, when we sit down and think, "how can I play with things today?," spins fun exploration into the mix rather than staying stuck in a rut, in a kind of unconscious assembly line.

The horse is full of enough surprises to fill our portfolio with a lifetime of potential. While we may follow the equine blueprint with confidence, it's a blast to dive into the larger pool of possibility because there's always more than one way to sculpt or paint them. Tweaking our pattern recognition response to home in on these possibilities then not only amplifies the realism of our work, but also lets us learn more about this lovely creature as well as more about our own motivations and processes. 

There's a lot to be said for developing a mental library of reliable creative blueprints, for sure. Indeed, they're absolutely necessary for realism. But there's also a lot of value in that fabulous organic chaos that's a part of realism just as much as the blueprint. Duality has its place in our art form, too. In this, our brain's ability to recognize patterns can either be a hindrance, forcing us down the narrow path of forced habits and formulas, or an amazing gateway that helps us discover so many more options for any given piece. It all depends on how we want to come to our subject—in the comfort of routine or in the spirit of exploration? How willing are we to become a little bit uncomfortable as we work? How prone are we to rattling our own cage? There's really no right or wrong answer here though, only those aligned to our own proclivities. Indeed, recognizing nature's patterns isn't the same as being enslaved to them when we're conscious of what's happening inside our noggins. In this, we can better pick and choose those patterns we wish to create, whether from nature or from our own aesthetic. As long as we can make more conscious choices, that's the name of the game here since we'll gain more creative freedom with more diversity, growth, and authority. We also gain the upper hand in our development by being able to pinpoint problem patterns which we can troubleshoot. The issue then is no longer, "I'm not talented enough," but instead, "I need to see this in a new way." There's a lot more actionable promise in that!

We won't ever stop our brain from fixating on patterns and that's actually a good thing. It gives us a place to start, an ever-present mechanism to train and implement. Because while we may not be able to beat it, we can convince it to work for us in better ways. Indeed, it actually wants to, it just needs a bit of guidance and know-how to deliver what we need. Truly, if there's one thing the brain loves more than a pattern, it's learning a new one so keep feeding it new patterns! Then watch that learning curve and fun factor ramp up! Boom! 

Our own creative patterns give us a foundation, artistic pillars that root our work in the larger landscape out there. And that's something to be greatly valued. Yet foundations are meant to be built on and there's no one way to build. Learn to turn our pattern recognition response into a curious worker bee that chirps "hey! lookie lookie!" rather than a foreman dictating "just do this!" and we'll be better able to pick out nature's rich variety to build a body of work with more scope, revelation, and delight. We don't have to beat our pattern recognition response then—the answer isn't found in stopping it. There's just no stopping it. The trick is found then in manipulating it with an awareness of what's happening when we observe and interpret to See each piece with more open expectations. In short, the secret is working with it rather than against it. Old habits die hard? Nah. Not when we have the processing power of pattern recognition on our side!

"All is pattern, all life, but we can't always see the pattern when we're part of it."

 —Belva Plain

The Pattern Predicament

Cookies On The Couch

Come On In! Take a Seat

In The Breadcrumbs Home I offered up a wad of my favorite quotes as I related them to creativity. I sure threw a lot at you! There were many more, to be honest, but I thought those specific quotes best distilled the points I thought you'd find most helpful. And the great thing about quotes is that people are creating new ones every day!

So I wonder now if you can indulge me with some ideas of my own I've blurted out over the years. I'd like to think that all my years doing this can condense into something perhaps helpful to you at the right moment. So come on in, the couch is comfy, and let me share with you some nibblets I've learned....

Here—Have a Cookie

"Don't get lost in the creative process."

You need to finish what you start, again and again and again. In doing so, you'll complete many pieces rather than fiddling with one for ages, spinning your wheels. Indeed, one of the big ways learners plateau is to futz with their piece indefinitely when they should be saying "done" and moving on. Each new piece presents new challenges, thought processes, and concepts that push you farther and faster than any one piece ever could. Seeking perfection is a great thing, a necessary thing for the technical nature of our genre, but getting lost in it is a problem. Perfecting your piece isn't the same as perfecting your skills. So go ahead—meander in the creative process on a piece...noodle, ponder, fiddle, and tweak, but know there's a point where that period is needed on the end of that sentence. 

Yet also understand, too, that this period could mean the trash can. Yes...sometimes a piece just...well, it needs a fresh start and so Version 1.1 needs to go bye-bye. That's okay though...it happens. The point is, know when this point has been reached so you aren't spinning your wheels faster and faster, getting ever more frustrated and disillusioned. In this case then, know when to fully stop and truly start over with a fresh new sculpture or a new layer of primer.

"Listen to your collectors, not the clatter."

Some time ago, a dear friend of mine observed, "If you notice your critics usually aren't your collectors, are they?" Nope. They aren't. And they have no real vested interest in your work other than bashing it. Being so, it's also unlikely you'll ever win them over. Haters are just gonna hate. It's just how they derive their life force. And some people are just deeply threatened by the success and happiness of another because of their own damaged baggage. That's on them then, not you. So leave them to their outrage and indignation—you don't need it in your life and it'll only distract you. And hey...if your haters made you stumble, they win, right? So chin up, eyes forward, toss those curls, and stride forwards confidently. You got this. Instead, focus on your collectors, those engaged with you, in support and encouragement. They're the ones you should be listening to, they're the ones who deserve your attention. If you're going to pretzel yourself then, do it for your collectors as they're the ones with a genuine vested interest in you.

Likewise, don't forget about your peers. Like-minded colleagues know the shared challenges as keenly as you do, they're in the same boat. Indeed, most of my lifelong friends come from this community, for good reason...we speak the same language. And make no mistake: That kind of belonging and comfort can mean the moon and sun! Because gosh sakes knows, the world out there is inordinately brutal to artists, especially in this community. So lean onto your fellow artists and allow them to lean onto you...we're better together rather than divided, right?

That said, learn to ignore the comments section...to pretty much everything in our venue. Seriously. Don't even go there. See, our community has a terrible penchant for thoughtless, even malicious commentary regarding our art. Much of it is misinformed and a lot of it is downright mean. Honestly, the icky wake generated by a single new debut can be really off-putting as a look for our genre, even devastating for the artist. Too many people just seem to think that their needless opinion should be put out there, but no...not all opinions are created equal and not all opinions are worth blurting out. Yet our community does nothing to police this and so until we revise our toxic social contract, bad behavior will tend to set the tone. So artists...learn how to weather it even if that means avoiding such places where this poor behavior is rampant or simply staying offline for a while after your debut. Your sanity and your joy are infinitely more important! (And check out my blog post, The Critic In The Creative Space for more insights on fielding criticism.) So that said, again...it's your collectors and colleagues who should have weight to their opinions in your view. They're the ones with opinions that count so keep your focus where it needs to be, on them.

"Be bold!"

"Each piece is practice for the next," Ed Gonzales wisely told me years ago. And truly, that's a great way to frame things that lessens the pressure we put on ourselves. Relax. And learning is a continuum with no end and with so many tangents, so careen if ya wanna. As long as you give yourself the opportunity to grow with each piece, you're doing it right.

But think about this, too: Approach some pieces with a purposeful, daring rethinking of accepted convention, especially your own. Don't be timid! And just because a whole bunch of conventional types are yelling at you to do it their way doesn't mean they're right or they understand your vision. Rock the boat! Break from what's accepted, what's a formula, what's dogma, what's a rule. If it's realistic and doesn't depict harm, it's game! So what can you do differently on this piece? How can you make it more novel? What's some unexplored territory you can wander into? What could you learn? What can you innovate? What could you poke at and challenge? Truly, if I don't feel like I'm absolutely going to fail horribly while I'm working, I know I'm not pushing far enough. So if you want to sculpt a Hackney in an unconventional phase of the trot—do it. If you want to sculpt a flippy tail on a jumping horse—do it. If you want to express muscles realistically but beyond accepted formula—do it. If you want to portray an esoteric breed type—do it. If you want to put a rare pattern on a breed where it's disfavored by some—do it. If you want to put flipped back ears on your halter horse—do it. Follow your gut even if that flies in the face of convention. Chance novelty with each piece, chase innovation and new ways of thinking about the subject—it's good for you creativity and it's fun! Sure, you'll get blowback, sometimes a lot of it it. But who cares? You'll have "dared greatly" and probably created a piece that'll really stick out in a crowd or resonate with someone. "No one ever achieved greatness by playing it safe," observed Harry Gray. 

What's more, believe in yourself and your power to create wonderful things. Bust out of those walls that tell you "I can't do that," or "that's too scary," or "that's just too much for me" or "people will criticize me for this." Try to dump the fear and shame. Because while operating outside the box may be risky, the payoff is huge! You'll have "said" something, you'll have established a new horizon for yourself, and you'll have prodded convention along just a little bit more. And know it or not, our genre has a very strong tradition of conventional thinking because so many participants haven't actually Looked at horses well enough or know how to. As such, their expectations are often too safe, are factually wrong, are stylistically biased or artistically stifling, or they haven't evolved with the current science or methodology. And conventions are meant to be poked at, I think. Questioned, rethought, and changed when needed, and the only way we do that is by poking them. In fact, I think some of them should be smashed! Bam!

"Don't sculpt dead horses."

Now you can sculpt figurative dead horses if you wish, but that's not what I'm referring to. What I am talking about here is the need to keep anatomy charts as baseline guides rather than latching onto them as dogma. Horses don't move like articulated paper doll anatomy diagrams. Now yes, the skeleton does of course, being rigid, but the living flesh that's packed around it doesn't—it morphs, squishes, stretches, jiggles, ripples, pooches, flops, wrinkles, pocks, and distorts with each fleeting "living moment." That means those tidy muscle configurations in a diagram change, often considerably, as muscles goo in and out of prominence, even distorting into something unrecognizable from their standing forms. This is what I refer to as "organic chaos," those physical things inherent in living reality yet entirely missing from static anatomical illustrations. Why? Because illustrations are created from dead horses! Living anatomy is entirely different from illustrated anatomy.

What's more, a major physical component is typically lacking from anatomy charts because it has to be stripped away to reveal the muscle groups: Fascia. This is what envelopes everything in some form, lending texture, support, structure, and mechanics to the entire system, tying it all together. It also creates in part the delicate hide and skin textures and effects on the body, those little "imperfections" or fleshy details that are a part of anatomy too. So if we don't reinstate fascia back into our considerations, we can end up creating a sculpture that looks more like inert polished metal than living flesh. Now this is perfectly fine if this is part of your style—and there's plenty of room for loads of styles in realism—but if we want to sculpt actual living flesh, factoring fascia back into the equation is a start.

Likewise, it also means that if we lean on those static illustrations too much, we're going veer towards a more formulaic rendition of anatomy and away from an organic one. Again, this is totally okay if that's part of your style, but if you want to go beyond it, you're going to have to let go of those orderly diagrams as literal interpretations. And, hey—it's fun! It makes sculpting more like playtime rather than "sculpting by numbers" plus your Eye will start to pick up on all of life's little fleshy eccentricities which add so much novelty and realism to your piece. 

What's more, it also means considering physics in our work, those physical forces that change flesh, too. The horse is a big, heavy, muscled, gooey, hairy athletic animal and that translates into a lot of wiggling', rippling, and jiggling' fleshy stuff going on and loads of passive mechanics with the mane, tail, and feathers. Really, hair is easily one of the most difficult things to sculpt partially for this reason as passive physics are difficult for the human brain to randomize. There are also inertial and weight issues on the body as well as mass is propelled upwards, forwards, backwards, or downwards, or lifted into lightness or compacted in tension. And on and on. But an anatomy chart doesn't relay any of this information and so we need a lot of observational study to learn to infuse it into our clay.

"The truth is in the work."

When all is said and done, when taking stock in our body of work, when pondering where our guiding star now calls us, or when we're fielding critics, we'll learn one thing: The truth is in our art. Everything we are is right there, in our art. And everything we need to know—about life, ourselves, our purpose, potential, and priorities, about our subject, everything—lies in our art. Our art always speaks the truth, how things really are despite what we may insist or think otherwise. But that's what motivated arting does—in its own way, which is different for everyone, it makes us dig deep and peels away artifices to get to the heart of things. We cannot create our art with honesty by only going halfway. So what does the full extent of this effort bring out in us, what does it reveal about us? In all this then, we learn more about our ourselves and our motivations and so our Truth. 

Adding to this, we're depicting an animal—one who has little agency in our human world—so our choices in his portrayal reveal a lot about us. We like to talk about humane treatment of horses, but what does our work actually say? Are we depicting problematic horsemanship? Are we duplicating questionable practices? Are we portraying outright abuse? Are we choosing dicey conformational structure? We can be advocates for this animal so what does our work say about how we really think and feel?

What's more, when others raise the bar, how will we respond? Does our art likewise evolve in scope and skill? Or does it stagnate and plateau? And what does that say about our attitude? If we talk a good talk, can our work walk the walk? It'll speak for itself, and louder than we ever could. And we may like to think that our skills and media are so good, are timeless, but only our art will challenge Time to prove if that holds true. Following this, what other people, including judges, think of our work now isn't a good reflection of posterity. Only the far future gifted with hindsight, will prove where we stand now. So it's our work—and only our work—that will travel forwards and speak for us in the future. 

Even so, our art will guide us towards that destiny, the truth of what we'll be, whatever it is...which can end up being quite a surprise! But listen to it. If it causes you to veer towards a new direction then—listen to it. If you're compelled to focus on something myopically—listen to it. If you're struggling, the work is trying to tell you something—listen to it. If your work is feeling tired and wants to bust loose—listen to it. Absolutely, your work will speak clearly about where you need to go, it'll speak your Truth—but only if you listen. So always...always...stay open to what your work is telling you. It always tells you the Truth.

"Be kind to yourself."

Perhaps all this culminates in the need to be gentle with ourselves. Aren't we our own most horrible critic? Yet we face deep challenges in this art form, many even psychological, so learn to give yourself second, third, fourth, twenty chances to process and meet them. Learning takes time, effort, and failure. And you will fail. Every artist has "bad horse days" and we'll make plenty of mistakes—that's actually how we learn. Perfectionism can be a relentless taskmaster all by itself, too, so learn to show yourself compassion and give yourself space to be human. Realize, too, that there will be times where you'll be frustrated, often when your skills don't match your expectations, so be patient with yourself. Also some of us have our mental health to manage, asking for even greater self-care. Find serenity, make peace, and extend yourself generous amounts of altruism. You and your work will be better off for it.

Showing kindness to ourselves also tends to make us kinder to others, too. It helps us realize that everyone is struggling in some way, much of it invisibly fought. Indeed, how much do you grapple with daily life and hide? Well, others are doing the same. So while they may seem totally on top of things, successful, popular, happy, gifted, famous, [insert the awesome], the truth is they're struggling with their own challenges, too. Give everyone room to be human, frail, and vulnerable, or at least the benefit of the doubt.

Now yes—some folks are just awful. There's always "that guy" in every crowd, isn't there? Yet I believe that human evil derives from fear, that instinctive, unthinking, knee-jerk, primordial fear. Not from bolting away from a hungry tiger per se, but that other kind that generates anger, hate, suspicion, resentment, envy, violence, prejudice, retaliation, beta aggression, lashing out, all those negatives. So deep down, awful behavior is usually due to being afraid. Yet, kindness—particularly reflected back onto ourselves—can become a beautiful armor hate can never breach. Haters can say anything they want, but self-grace will always deflect it.

"Stay curious."

Nature is full of curve balls and the moment we worship something as dogma, it'll often blast that apart. The natural world is packed full of wonder, magic, possibility, eccentricity, variety, and discovery so stay open and hungry. New things can come from any direction, too, some totally unexpected. Curiosity and staying a learner will serve you well in equine realism because embracing discovery rather than defaulting to convention keeps our work exploratory and honest. Indeed, black and white thinking won't serve us well when expressing life. Really, knowledge isn't so much about regurgitated information. A computer can do that. Instead, actual knowledge is understanding and imagining how to creatively and resourcefully apply facts while also questioning them and playing with them, of knowing that truth is always evolving as are the answers. It's more about adaptability and creative thinking than about blurted out dogma, and here curiosity plays a pivotal role.

Curiosity doesn't just have to do with knowledge bases or skill sets though. It also entails the nature of our work—how we explore our subject, how we rethink our work, what ideas we explore, the narratives we choose, and how we go about doing all that. If we're tweaking and remaking our knowledge base with each piece then, we're practicing curiosity, too. 

Because the moment our curiosity leaves us is the moment our work stops evolving. We'll also probably become less enthusiastic compared to someone who has kept theirs, messing with our motivations and sense of self-worth. Try then to avoid the idea that "I know enough." Trust me—no one does and that's a wonderful thing. So much more to explore! 

"Arting has a common language."

Remember that the artistic and psychological struggles of other artists are often similar with our own—we're all in the same boat. We have a kind of kinship, an "arthood" of sorts. It's wonderful to know that someone might understand what we're experiencing so thoroughly! It does mean this as well: Other artists have their own struggles, too, ones we may never see. So be glad for them then when they succeed...congratulate, encourage, and support them. They probably surmounted some pretty tough obstacles, many of which may be invisible to us, and that's definitely worth praise and admiration, right?

In addition to this, art speaks to people in different ways, but it does so through the same conduits: Love, aesthetics, stirred thoughts, memory, emotion, humor, and our human need for connection. If we can light up just some of those pathways then, our art can speak directly to the soul and create an amazing synergistic connection. That's what language does, and art has a language everyone can relate to in some way. Art is a kind of mother tongue of the soul. 

Going further, we're focused on an animal, a subject with their own very peculiar reality, motivations, agenda, and perceptions. In this, we can speak with and for them, using the common language of art to translate theirs. What are we saying with our art then? Is it something we want to say?

"Help rather than harp."

Very often we'll hear someone beg, even demand certain things of organizations, shows, hosts, and volunteers. It's understandable—there may be a problem that needs addressing. However, here's the truth of it: Anything we demand we should spearhead ourselves to completion; otherwise be satisfied with the status quo. Why? Well, those folks are already overtaxed, worn out, burned out, stretched too thin, traumatized, and resource-depleted. So help rather than harp. 'Nuff said about that.

"Life is messy."

I admit—I'm a "grey area" person. I prefer ambiguity, mystery, and uncertainty over absolutes. Not to say that absolutes don't exist—an elbow can only bend like a hinge unless it breaks—but you know what I mean. Fudge factor. Wiggle room. Space for organic, mercurial, unpredictable nature. Because just when someone seems to lay down dogma, nature chucks a curve ball right into the glove. 

Equine color genetics is a classic example as new mutations and new discoveries are rewriting what was known about the involved mechanisms as well as forcing colors conventions to evolve. New science is making discoveries that challenge a lot of traditional assumptions, nomenclature, and concepts, too, so black and white thinking here can literally wipe out colorful reality...and isn't that unacceptable?

Same with equine physiology as new ideas and tech are finally unraveling the mysteries of equine biomechanics, biology, and behavior, and as such, a lot is now in flux. And all those neato anatomy charts we all love? Tidy, neat, delineated? Well, in actual nature—not so much. It's an organic mess full of variation, variety, and the unexpected! Do an actual dissection and you'll quickly develop an appreciation for those who tried to make any sense out of it at all in a tidy diagram! 

The horse themself is often unexpected, too. Their anatomy manifests in ways well beyond what we'd predict, well out of formula, well past what we think it "should" be. Sure, it follows biological rules, but still, it'll always surprise us. Their conformation can vary as well, and even change with trends and tastes. Individual variation—just like with people—also adds so much possibility with infinite physical eccentricities. Now add in physics, the invisible forces of nature that reveal themselves only through their effects on his body, constant and fleeting, and then we have a really wonderfully messy equation. Then the magic of the moment injects its own effects that make that "snapshot" so completely unique. What a changeable, fascinating, always-inspiring setting in which to express this marvelous creature! Point is—trying to cram this animal into a box of our own making will only bust the seams.  

"Huzzah!"

You'll hear me say this in response to all sorts of things, but essentially it boils down to this: Acknowledge and celebrate your moments of accomplishment or revelation! And even "bad" things can warrant a "huzzah"! So don't hold back! This art form is hard enough, fraught with failure and criticism, so when something great happens—huzzah! When you leap over those obstacles and realize your vision finally—hazzah! When your peers place well in a show—huzzah! When you fall on your face but get back up to start again, better armed—huzzah! When you discover something totally surprising you were wrong about—huzzah! When your new media is really giving you a run for your money—huzzah! When you've had to make the nth correction to get it just right—huzzah! When you've had an unexpected artistic epiphany—huzzah! When you got last place but figured out why—huzzah! 

There's a lot of great reasons to huzzah so don't be stingy! Celebrating your moments of triumphs, discovery, effort, courage, learning, and failure lends balance to an otherwise taxing art form. No small measure of progress is actually small—it's huge! You did it! Something exists now that didn't before because you pulled it out of the ether and made it real. So be chuffed about the whole endeavor, failure or success, eager for more. Huzzah!

"Embrace the past, relish the present, forge into the future."

Never forget where you came from...humble beginnings, getting lots of help and support, and being confused, starry-eyed, intimidated, scared, overwhelmed, wildly inspired, and wow-ed. You were a beginner once, too. When we remember this, we stay better grounded and perhaps find more meaning to our arting. But keep the past in the past. It's gone, over and done with. Fixating on it can just cause undue grief or distraction, and that can lead to a lot of negatives. You can still look ahead while remembering the past, pulling from it what's useful but just keep it in perspective.

As for right now, you've worked hard to get here, so savor your successes, accomplishments, and especially your failures. They've all taught you something. Value your peers and colleagues and collectors, always. They're part of your support system. Hold close to heart your new challenges and struggles. They're your pathways to your destiny. But don't get stuck in the present. Yes, we need to be mindful of the now, focus and rethink. But we need to look to the future, too. There's no way to get where we're supposed to go by staying in one place. So try to avoid static thinking like, "I don't need to change my work," or "I'm as good as I'm ever going to get." Even despondence like, "everybody is getting better then me so what's the point?" Reach for more with every piece, no matter how meager the effort. It's cumulative.

And so, keep marching forwards even if you fall flat on your face. Everything adds up to where you're supposed to go. And know your goals, even if they're simple and modest. Understand too that things will always evolve and change and so should our work, and that's exciting! Yet still be patient with yourself—things happen in their own time. Your march into the future won't be a constant rhythm of footfalls and there will be times when you're pushed back a few steps. It's okay, it's normal—that's life. Just keep marching forwards, even in any direction.

"Create from your he-art."

Heart and art, two things that go better together. Listen to your gut then and follow it, wherever it may lead. It knows the right way to go. 

And work to put soul into each piece. Don't just create "a new piece," think about sculpting a new soul, too. Explore the heart of this animal because they're so much more than what we do with them. They're more than a utilitarian thing. An object. A representation. They're an autonomous creature with a rich inner landscape, with their own reality, perspectives, and motivations. And though not always to our liking, these things are valid from their point of view. 

And put your whole self into each piece. Throw yourself into it. Give it your all. You'll develop faster, find a lot of satisfaction in the hard work when you're done, and discover that you can surprise yourself in wonderful ways. You have so much potential in you, but only if you give it your full he-art.

"Hope is a lighthouse."

There's the term "fog of war" in which the soldiers have no clue what's around them as they advance—the fog—yet must continue nonetheless to persevere in battle. Or, for example, in Dungeons and Dragons, a DM may actually put down some paper to obscure where the players are going on the map, pulling it back as they advance. 

Creativity is exactly the same way. We may have a mission, a goal, but getting there means we go through the fog of uncertainty because anything can happen getting there. And it's hope—and only hope—that keeps you going. It funnels gumption, determination, discipline, innovation, problem-solving, hard work, rethinking, inspiration, and everything else that generates the happy outcome of a finished piece. Without hope, we stop and we despair. Without hope, we don't believe in ourselves, we don't believe tomorrow can be a better day in the studio, that the next piece can be closer to our expectations, that we can figure it out despite the challenges. The fog is a bleak, oppressive place if you don't have something brilliant pulling you forward, keeping the promise alive. And you don't have to have a lot—just a little bit will do. You only need a speck of light to fumble through the dark one little step at a time.

And here's the thing, the more pieces you finish, the bigger that light becomes, calling you forward brighter and brighter. Many call this "confidence," but I like to think of it as simply more hope. Obstacles become challenges, despondency becomes incentive, uncertainty becomes puzzles, intimidation becomes courage, fear becomes curiosity. Hope simply flips the equation and changes the narrative, creating an exceedingly powerful force within you.

"When you need to learn, teach."

The adage, "He who can, does; he who cannot, teaches," (George Bernard Shaw) is so wildly wrong, I don't even know where to start. Instead, I believe the idea, "Those who know do, those that understand teach" (Aristotle). Because you want to know where your knowledge gaps are? Teach. You want to know where you're wrong? Teach. Want to know the most current research, ideas, and theories? Teach. Want the benefit of a socially-induced pool of knowledge? Teach. You have to really know your stuff to teach because someone else will always take things sideways, which is a good thing. 

Teaching also clarifies our own ideas, processes, and knowledge base for ourselves, something valuable as we amass more with experience. But it doesn't have to be extravagant! Just getting out there and casually talking about how you do things, what you've learned, what your ideas are, even just showing what you're doing can be enough to generate an impromptu classroom. Social media is a goldmine for this, but don't forget blogs and videos, things also relatively easy to do. Some have even ramped it up with books, seminars, and workshops! There's plenty of ways to create a learning circle for a win-win. Knowledge really is best shared rather than hoarded because we're a social species that accomplishes amazing things by sharing information. Indeed, the more brains that work a problem, the more solutions and options there are for everyone.

"The horse is the best teacher."

On that note, even so, when all is said and done, it's still our subject that has the last word. They're our example, our standard, and our revealer. Have a question you cannot find an answer to? The horse will have it. Want to test information? Refer back to them. Don't understand how something quite works? Study them more. Learn directly from the horse because they'll never give you a wrong answer.

What does that all boil down to? Lots and lots of study. Field study, photographs, illustrations, charts, diagrams, books, videos, or anything that draws from the actual horse can provide the foundation and the clarifications. The best of these however is field study. The more of it you do, the better your work will become. There's no substitute for getting up close and personal. The second is high quality video, and hit the freeze or rewind button as many times as you need. After that are high quality photographs because they freeze key moments. In this, comparison study is a powerful tool for a deep understanding so stack up those images to study their commonalities, differences, subtleties, and tendencies. It's amazing what this alone can program into your brain. Printed text or illustrations are also handy, and sometimes the only way to practically relay the information. For example, anatomy illustrations, data on color and pattern, breeds and their variations, and other things like that can be easily learned from high quality text sources.

What's the real point of all this work? Well, not only to absorb the data, but to also generate a deep mental library and to expand your knowledge base. This is precisely why the more pieces you finish, the faster these two things grow as a natural byproduct of having to tackle so many challenges. It's also why established artists create things faster—they're drawing from a long-earned mental library and knowledge base that fills in the gaps more efficiently. 

We also need to refine our way of looking at the animal into a savvy Eye. There's a huge difference between seeing and Seeing, between looking and Observing. In this, it's not enough to just know information, we have to decipher and translate it effectively, as well. We have to apply it. So train yourself to see beyond the obvious and take nothing for granted. That's to say, work to develop X-ray vision and the Eye of a laser scanner. Every detail, movement, ripple, jiggle, squish, shift, bump, twist, rotation, stretch, flicker, expression, or any other tweak counts. And there's really no truly "neutral" position with a horse since even a standing one is still moving in some way. It's a lot to process, a lot of data to absorb to be sure, but even if we acquire just a teensy bit more with each piece, we're progressing.

So this is where artistic exercises come in to hone your Sight. For example, as you study, think about sculpting or painting that area too—really doing it with your tools. How would you do that? What are the positions you'd hold your tool? Your swiping patterns? How and where would you soften or crispify? What hue of pigment would you use? How would you mix it? How much pigment would you have on our brush? What kind of brush would you use? The more you pin down exactly how you'd do it before you do, the keener attention you'll pay. In this, think of your piece as a blank canvas that you have to "fill up" so how do you do that? For example, think about using the cut-out technique of training your Eye. Take a sheet of white printer paper and make a hole or "frame" in the middle then lay the sheet onto a photo, revealing just the portion inside the hole. Now you can really get in there and study what's actually happening without the distraction of the larger image, without the "noise" of the peripheral visual. What we're actually doing with this exercise is tricking our brain's pattern recognition response because when we look at the whole photo, our brain defaults to "whole horse" and we can lose sight of all the finer details. But when we remove "whole horse," the brain is forced to find new patterns, which it'll do within that paper frame in short order. So, say, for an 8x11" photo, make a  1" hole cut in the middle of the white paper (and scale up or down with respective photos). Then shift that over the horse in the photo. It's amazing what will pop out at you now!

Your Journey Home

Well, that's it. Wrap it all up and you've got some cookies to take with you and your breadcrumbs to follow home. I hope some of these tidbits will fortify you as you find your way back. This art form is so hard sometimes and the blowback even harder, but even worse, we're hardest on ourselves. But with just a small perception shift, a bit of insight given at the right moment, everything can change, especially in how we treat ourselves. Because what an artist needs most perhaps is perspective. To stand on a cliff with that breeze blowing on a clear day, gazing out over the vast expanse to take in the big picture. We can too easily get caught up in minutae and overthinking. So "stay on target," "follow your bliss," "the horse is the best teacher," and "find your way home" and you'll be just fine. Art on!

"I live in my own little world. But it's ok, they know me here."

— Lauren Myracle

Cookies On The Couch