'The hula hoop shop'. Crayon on paper by my three-year-old son, 2024.
A meditation on seeking pleasure for pleasure’s sake.
Words by Daisy Baker
“Look at this, Mum,” my three-year-old son cries, holding up a crayon drawing of exuberant swirls and colours. “It's the hula-hoop shop!”
The technicolour chaos of his mind is now on the page.
I choose my next words carefully. “Tell me about the colours you used.” I've read not to praise the outcome (wow, that's amazing) and instead be curious and celebrate the process, hopefully reinforcing self-expression as a joyous act and not fuelling a mindset that craves approval from others.
Perhaps the reason so many of us leave art behind in childhood is because we get hung up on doing a perfect job, feeling ashamed when the lines of our pencil don't match our vision or expectation. We listen to the monkey mind that finds a megaphone and shouts, “If you can't do it amazingly, why do it at all?”
I once heard that people draw at a level that reflects when they stopped doing it regularly, when they succumbed to the voices that told them they weren't good enough. That their time would be better spent elsewhere, doing something they were good at, something with status and the potential of monetary gain.
Art has always brought me joy, although it was left in the sidelines a decade or so ago. In motherhood, however, I’ve found my mind has slowed and my gaze is renewed. This is the gift from my toddler, so wonderstruck with nature. Our days together are focused on the droplets of rain that gather on leaves and cobwebs, the smoothness of rocks, the call of birds.
Here in this cocoon, my son is sheltered from judgement and comparison – his art is solely about his creativity and joy. Regardless of how short-lived this state might be, this cocoon has embraced me, too, prompting a reawakening of sorts.
Amid my son's creations with wonky legs and too many eyes, I've rediscovered the pleasure of creating “just because”. I've extended the gentleness to myself, to relieve the pressure that commands output and achievement. I've started to paint again, sing songs (silly ones) and dance unselfconsciously. There will come a day, I'm sure, when my son asks me to please stop singing like that in public, but I think I'll be too far gone by then, not the slightest bit phased by what onlookers are thinking.
There's bravery and a vulnerability in self-expression. Author Holly Ringland writes in The House that Joy Built that we have an inner country of creativity, and people stop venturing there out of guilt or fear or shame. My guess is our gaze becomes so inward, so focused on achievement and productivity, that we simply stop noticing the wonder around us. Pleasure for pleasure's sake feels trivial and self-indulgent when there's “real” work to be done.
A uni lecturer once told us not to stress over our assignment, that it needn't be our magnum opus. That was perhaps one of the most freeing pieces of advice I've received. Not everything we create needs to be a work of greatness or an income stream.
Paint that picture, bake that cake, sing that song and dance that dance even if it won't be perfect.
Heck, do it because it won't be perfect.
Do it for the sheer pleasure of it.
This personal essay was first published in Galah issue 11, 2024.
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