The practice of practicing

On my word for 2026 and the irony

I’m sitting here next to our fireplace — ablaze — with the B-side of Pink Moon on the record player, having set myself up for success I think. I am surrounded by My Things™: glass of water, snack, cozy blanket, background music. Everything that could potentially derail my distraction-prone brain while I try to write has been thought of, and solutions have been placed within arm’s reach.

That’s the mental game I have to play with myself in order to do a seemingly simple objective; I prepare so much for every possible distraction that by the time I’m ready to execute the task, I’ve completely lost interest in the process. I feel that right now, as I hear the record player time out (this is too short an album), and I need to go flip the LP, lest it spin silently into oblivion. I am requiring myself to come back directly back to this task — a task 15-Minutes-Ago-Me volunteered Now-Me to do: writing as a hobby.

*flips record*

In my mind, a hobby is something you have to be doing somewhat consistently for an arbitrarily decent amount of time in order to add it to the list of interests you’d note for potential suitors on a dating app. I can’t in good conscience pronounce that “one of my hobbies is writing” if I don’t actually make the time to write. My ADHD trips me up in this department. I —

walked away after getting distracted and now I’m back an hour later. Leaving mid-sentence was not a conscious choice, and seeing that I did that cracked me up. We’re leaving it.

Onward!

Bear with me, dear reader — we’ve relocated. I am now cozied up on the couch with my partner, body doubling as we both do computer things. To set the scene, Kirby and I are drinking tea, nibbling the scraps of cookies leftover from the holidays, and a full-volume, minimal-attention viewing of Lord of The Rings (extended editions of course) has usurped Nick Drake in the background noise department.

Surrounded once again by a solid selection of My Things™, I figure I can’t abandon ship now and am determined to get something down, even if this remains a draft — because I can’t have a writing hobby if I don’t actually write. So let’s get on with it.

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I rarely choose a word of the year, and if I do, I tend to promptly forget it. However — musing on the idea now — if I had to choose, I think my word of the year for 2026 would be practice. I often refer to my job as a full-time artist as my “creative practice” or “studio practice.” Despite that terminology, I feel that I often lack the practice of practicing in my time in the studio. Even naming this Substack Proof of Practice nearly a year ago is comical to me now, knowing my few posts and undeveloped writing habit are quite literally proof of my non-practice. Alas, there is only one way to change that, which is getting back in the saddle and spurring on this slow horse.

Because in case you didn’t know, in order to get good at something, you have to practice.

Unfortunately, my brain pretends to be unaware of the fact that thinking about doing something is not the same as the doing of the thing. An imagined hobby is a daydream, not an actualized interest. In order to become a decent painter, I have had to paint. If I continue to paint, which is likely, I will become a better painter. Writing is the same, and I am determined to clock in more time writing than daydreaming about being a writer, because bad work better than no work at all [confidently proclaims the Virgo terrified of bad work].

On that note, I am absolutely known to try things once, achieve nothing short of imperfection, and put my “new hobby” down in favor of something else that seems momentarily alluring. Despite this, my goal for this coming year is to stick with new-to-me activities — to make it past the messy middle of a work-in-progress hobby, lest it be abandoned to the graveyard of short-lived creative pursuits (which currently includes embroidery, knitting, hand-lettering, stationery, papier-mâché, and linocut printing, among others. RIP!).

This coming year I plan on exploring several new mediums to extend my creative range in the studio. I’m somewhat hilariously hoping for longterm effort on my part that begets longterm effects — new tools and techniques I can apply in the years to come, not just another quick-to-burn interest that phases out of my work due to lack of perseverance on my part. I am dyingggg to have fun and feel inventive and crafty in the studio again, and I’m clinging to the idea that introducing myself to fresh inspiration through new materials and intentional play will be the cure-all to the stagnancy I’ve felt brainstorming new bodies of work. However, with new inspiration eventually come new styles, and there is no small measure of internalized fear attached to the concept of sharing new artwork.

I think this is pretty normal for creatives. I am personally feeling it primarily as a fear of rejection, of baring my soul to an audience that was only signed up to be here for that other thing I was doing, whatever it was at the time they clicked follow or subscribe. However, artists, by nature, evolve. I want my art to mean more. To exist with more weight than I’ve attached to it in the past. To visually express a narrative that can speak for itself without so much of my verbal and written support.

Featuring bright colors and shapes paired with “fun” and “pretty” feminine motifs, a large body of my artwork can be easily dismissed as superficial. And I get it! Unless there’s an artist statement attached, the weight of my work is, well, potentially nonexistent. Standing on its own with no supporting description, my portfolio my seem rather shallow at first glance, occasionally relying on the materials, scale of production, or my photography skills to qualify it as “fine art.”

I don’t share this viewpoint as some depressing critique intended to minimize my creative work, nor am I of the belief that this is the general sentiment folks feel with regard to my work (I do confidently call myself a fine artist!). Rather, it is a reminder of how we collectively view the category of fine art. Hundreds of years’ time difference has awarded decorative or functional artwork the label of “fine art” simply because of its ability to withstand the centuries and be a marker of changes in taste or aesthetic over time. Names of artists who were regarded with contempt or dismissed entirely by the societies of their times now line museum walls on placards next to artwork worth millions in today’s dollars. These artists redefined “fine art” for the following generations just as our contemporaries will.

Enter craft.

I know I’m not the only person who is noticing a shift in what we consider to be fine art. We’re currently seeing a trend of folk and decorative art motifs and styles enter the fine art realm (I include my work in this), further blurring the line between what is considered “craft” vs “fine art” (traditionally, the difference would be a matter of function vs form, respectively). This gray area between the two categories has been long inhabited by craftspeople who create beautiful work both out of necessity and for pleasure; with the world on the slippery slope of an increasingly digital age, we are becoming nostalgic for forms of beauty rooted in more tangible histories than doomscrolling on our phone screens can provide. What better way to engage with the real world than through the tactility of craft, be it quilting, embroidery, ceramics, or some other creative skill not usually considered “fine art?”

It’s no surprise that traditional crafts are making their way to galleries and influencing fine artists’ subject matter and material, emerging into spaces usually reserved for non-functional and primarily aesthetic creations. Over the past couple of years, I’ve found myself drawn to folk art imagery and have focused heavily on it in my compositions— quilt squares, celestial stars, folk art floral motifs, etc. have all made their way into my work. I don’t mind that my work may feel trendy in that capacity; all art is a response to our interests and environment outside the studio, so it feels natural that the artwork and handcrafted goods I’ve collected, my grandmother’s hand-sewn quilts I grew up around, and what I drool over on Pinterest has inspired me in the studio.

I say all of this not to excuse derivative art, but to better explain a recent realization that my art has become a little too “approachable.” While mass appeal is a lovely concept, my current methods of drawing inspiration have trapped me in a cycle of almost making what I want to make but hesitating to really go for it, a sense of caution due to the fear that it will be too different from what I’m known for, not as trendy in color palette or imagery, and therefore won’t be accepted as worthy of connecting with and collecting.

In the process of muddling through these conversations with myself, I have to ask: what is the purpose of pursuing any idea in my studio if I don’t fully honor the natural evolution my creative brain is pushing for? Say it with me:

Creative expansion is a GOOD THING — all caps!

And I am allowed to embody that in my own career, not just admire it in others’!

Eras, periods, call them what you will — every artist has them, and oftentimes their work shifts drastically as they explore their visual language and relate to the world differently throughout various seasons of life. It’s easy to revere the expression of multi-passionate creative careers when looking at The Big Names In Art, but it is another thing to grapple with altogether when looking at my own creative work and reflecting on how shifts in my internal landscape and dialogue will affect my creative endeavors in the future.

This is where the idea of practice circles back into relevancy in this conversation. Only in practicing getting my ideas out in a sketchbook — no matter how ill-conceived or half-baked the ideas might be — trying again and again and again to master new materials and techniques I find challenging, and showing up with renewed determination after previous failed attempts at consistency will I be able to actually grow in my creative career this year.

Practice makes progress, not perfection.

And that’s what I’m after: not an idealized version of myself who perfectly masters a new skill or habit, but a version who gives herself permission to practice practicing — and allows herself grace when she falters or fails.

After not making a peep via Substack posts since the summertime, here I am writing practicing, doing the damn thing and desiring to do more of it. Maybe my word of the year isn’t so ironic after all.

Talk soon,

xo Haley

Hi, it’s me. <3