Honoring our beginner stage — Movement is Life

As I walked into my painting class a few months ago, I held the door for a pottery student who was juggling several pieces of her work. One particular piece caught my eye. I inquired whether she was selling it, and she seemed taken back. "I’m just a beginner," she said, "you can have it for free." I insisted on paying for it, but she declined profusely, urging me to take it.

Yesterday, I had a similar encounter at an art festival. Beginners were selling their pottery pieces for just $15, which felt like a giveaway. (I truly believe in affordable art, but this felt especially generous.) The booth was bustling with people as it does when basement bargain prices are found.

I ended up with several stunning pieces, all the while reflecting on how these artists might have held the belief that their pottery was insignificant because they were just starting out. I’ve had similar feelings myself since I began painting earlier this year.

These experiences got me thinking: What if there is something magical in our beginnings? Perhaps when we first start creating, we are tapping into a natural, almost ancestral knowing that doesn’t rely on extensive formal training or repetitive practice.

Instead of relying on muscle memory, our work flows more freely and authentically—whether it’s art, writing, or our first day on a new job—allowing us to tap into unfiltered creativity and genuine enthusiasm that can often get snuffed once we become seasoned.

What if we celebrated and valued our beginner selves just as much as our experienced selves? Why do we think that only years of struggle and grinding can validate our creations? Maybe there’s a unique worth in the raw, unrefined way of being and doing that comes from our initial attempts, a purity that deserves recognition and appreciation.

I am starting formal art school in a few weeks, I’m filled with a mix of excitement and apprehension. On one hand, I’m thrilled about the opportunity to deepen my technical skills. On the other hand, I worry about the impact that structured training might have on my beginner’s mindset.

Right now, as a beginner, my art is driven by wonder and the awe of just creating. I create with a sense of freedom that comes from not yet being bound by technical constraints. I can already imagine that as I build my technical skills, I might start overthinking, striving to meet the mark of some formal class grade/ranking, and focusing on correctness, which could all potentially change my relationship with my art practice.

Although I have these thoughts, I welcome the change because I realize it is part of the journey. Growth has its stages, and we don’t remain in the beginner’s stage forever.

As a nudge to reach for the summit, a lot of people tell beginners, “keep going.” Yes, keep going but I really want to pause and savor the beginner’s spirit I’ve embraced over the past few months rather than fixating on the notion that a future version of me, once I reach the summit, will be significantly better and produce more worthy art.

Sure, in the future I will produce more technically sound art, but it won’t necessarily be more worthy. My wonky beginner art might have more dynamism and freedom, which could be more appealing to my collectors—just like the beginner pottery artists whose pieces I’ve collected and now grace my desk, cabinets, hold my fruits, and serve my morning oatmeal.

These items are daily reminders of the beauty and authenticity that emerge from the early stages of creation, where perhaps magic and synchronicity lie. I am now on a small mission to collect and absorb works from beginners—artists, writers, and performers—honoring and celebrating the newcomer.