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New year, new medium: An exercise in artistic self-sabotage

Writer's picture: Victoria HallVictoria Hall
Contemporary sculpture by Victoria Hall
Victoria Hall, Ties That Melt and Hold. 2024, wax and twine, 60cm x 55cm. Copyright Victoria Hall 2024.


Ah, January. The month where we all lie to ourselves. We sign up for gym memberships we’ll never use, buy planners destined to remain blank by March, and—if you’re of the creative persuasion—decide this is the year to master a completely new artistic medium.


Because nothing says "fresh start" quite like hurling yourself into the deep end of an unfamiliar craft, convinced that, this time, you won’t end up rage-quitting by February.


Step one: Choose your new obsession


The first mistake—I mean, step—is selecting your new medium. Ideally, it should be something wildly impractical, expensive, or at odds with your natural abilities. If you’re a painter, perhaps it’s time to try sculpture (spoiler: clay has a personal vendetta against you). If you’re a writer, why not take up printmaking? Because nothing enhances the creative process like realising you need both talent and industrial-grade equipment.


For the full experience, pick something requiring a highly specific skill set that takes years to master. Japanese woodblock printing, for example. Glassblowing. Or perhaps something with a steep learning curve and no clear end goal—like experimental performance art, in which you become the art by staring at strangers in the park until they call the police.


Step two: Buy everything, use nothing


Now that you’ve selected your medium, it’s time for a classic January ritual: Spending obscene amounts of money on supplies that will gather dust in a corner while you "mentally prepare" to use them.


This is an essential part of the process. If you don’t panic-buy an entire set of oil pastels, a stack of specialist paper, and at least one item you don’t fully understand (why does linocut require a gouge? That sounds violent), are you even committing?


Step three: The overconfidence phase


Armed with your shiny new materials, you now enter the "beginner’s delusion" stage. This is where you convince yourself that, despite zero experience, you will somehow be weirdly good at this.


This confidence lasts approximately ten minutes, or until you attempt your first piece and realise that—surprise!—skills take time to develop. Who knew? Certainly not you, standing in your kitchen covered in plaster, wondering why your sculpture looks more like a malformed potato than the sleek, abstract masterpiece in your head.


Step four: The crisis of faith


At some point, the realisation will hit: You are not, in fact, a prodigy. Your calligraphy looks like the scribblings of a caffeinated toddler. Your charcoal sketches are indistinguishable from smudges. Your homemade ceramic bowl wobbles like it’s experiencing an existential crisis.


This is the breaking point. The moment where you either a) accept your fate and keep going, or b) dramatically shove everything into a drawer, never to be spoken of again.


Step five: Make peace with the chaos


If you manage to push through the disaster phase, something magical happens. You stop trying to be good and just start doing. You lean into the mess, the mistakes, the absolute unpredictability of it all.


And in this act of surrender, you may just find joy. The joy of learning, of experimenting, of making something, even if it’s objectively terrible. You might even start to improve. Not that improvement is the goal, of course. No, the real goal is to have enough half-finished projects to guilt-trip yourself into "coming back to it later."


So, if you’re feeling brave this January, pick up that terrifyingly unfamiliar material. Accept that it will go wrong, embrace the chaos, and enjoy the ride. After all, what’s creativity without a little self-inflicted suffering?


And if all else fails—there’s always next year.


x Victoria


Victoria Hall. 2024.
Victoria Hall. 2024.

About Victoria Hall

Victoria Hall is an English-born, Australian-based writer, artist and illustrator. She is the creator of three picture books for children, Penny Prickles at Coogee Beach, Eggy Peggy Has Lost Her Leggy and The Fairy Beasts.


Victoria has studied Fine Art and Illustration at Curtin University and Sydney University, as well as Business at The University of West London.


Victoria loves to experiment creatively. She has absolutely no shame in sharing her latest obsessions via her blog and social media. This year, she will be hurling herself further into the unfamiliar territory of contemporary sculpture, among other mediums.


For more updates on Victoria’s projects, follow her on Instagram or check out her bio here.

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