The hardest DIY project I’ve ever done was teaching myself how to be an artist. I did not attend art school or take any formal art classes or workshops. I learned by watching YouTube videos, reading books, and continuing to draw or write throughout the years. I learned by drawing and writing badly and taking long breaks before going back to both. Most of the learning happened in solitude, without validation or fanfare.
For a long time, I thought of this as just something I kept doing regardless of the outcome. I drew, I wrote, and when life got too overwhelming, I stopped. Then I began again. Some tries took years to happen and every time I return to them, it always feels unnatural. My hands were stiff and my confidence weakened. I had to learn again how to sit still, pay attention, and believe that the work would eventually show me what it needed.
There were no external ways to measure progress without formal training. There were no grades or teachers to tell me if something worked. I had to decide when a piece was done, or if it had to be abandoned, or simply put aside. It wasn’t easy to make that kind of choice. It took me a long time to learn that, and I had to do it over and over again. I learned how to deal with uncertainty without rushing to fix anything.
The work grew over time to include more than just individual pieces. Instead of just adding to my writing, I learned how to edit existing pieces. I learned how to put together drawings, poems, and pieces of writing to become finished products. Sometimes I reworked my drawings or writings or redid them again if I wasn’t pleased with the results.
This project of teaching myself art happened at the same time as regular life. I have kids to raise, bills to pay, and a social life to attend to. At times, responsibilities, fatigue, and distractions pushed the art project to the periphery of my life. I often thought during those times that I had lost the drive I used to have. However, upon my return, I discovered that my skills and instincts remained intact, ready for action. When I resumed, the work started up again even if I encountered hiccups.
Teaching myself also meant I had to work within limits. I didn’t always have the vocabulary others had. I worked more slowly than others who had help or extra resources. I learned through repetition rather than progression. Sometimes I kept going back to the same themes for years and that used to bother me. However, I finally gave up on trying to change that pattern. I accepted that repetition turned into a way to learn instead of a sign of failure.
Looking back, the purpose of doing those things was to stick with the process, even when years went by without anyone noticing or championing my work. It was always a lonely pursuit, but the work continued anyway. It always changed with the seasons of life. I’m still teaching myself to this day, decades after I started. The methods might have changed, but the practice stays the same. And there is no end to this self-taught project until the day I die. The project goes on as a way of working, gradually evolving, moving forward without ceremony, and being shaped by whatever the day brings.
I write about Iban culture, ancestral rituals, creative life, emotional truths, and the quiet transformations of love, motherhood, and identity. If this speaks to you, subscribe and journey with me.
Olivia's Atelier 