Painful, racking self doubt today. The crippling kind that makes you question whether your art even has any value at all. The kind that is so hard to refute, so hard to argue with because it’s so damn logical.

I think this is just one of those creative job hazards – when you’re making it up as you go, when there’s no road map for your life, it can feel like you’re doing everything horribly, horribly wrong.

Today, my self doubt is picking on my education, or lack thereof.

Today it says, you didn’t paint any of your landscapes from life, you took photos and then painted them in the studio. That’s not what real painters do. Real painters paint from life. Real painters venture into the outdoors and paint en plein air. You don’t. Therefore, your work is crap.

It says, you haven’t drawn from life enough. You didn’t study under a master. You’re painting all wrong. You’re not doing it right. Therefore, your work is crap.

And it’s hard to argue because these things are all true.

They’re all bloody true.

Remember I told you my inner critic is a 60 year old painter? Well he also studied under several masters, and spent 10 years in Florence, and is one crotchety old bastard. I’ve decided to name him Marcel, and Marcel thinks he is pretty high and mighty. And he thinks I’m uppity. And that I suck. (Except Marcel would never say “You suck.” That’s beneath him. He just logically points out that I lack all of the necessary training to call myself a real painter.)

And because he’s so factual, because what he’s saying is the truth, I crumble beneath his words. I can feel myself deflating.

Marcel thinks I’m a fraud. He looks at my art and he says, “Well you might think it looks good, but you didn’t paint it from life, so it’s going to be inherently bad. There are probably so many mistakes that you can’t even see.”

That’s what the fear is – that no matter how hard I work on something, there are going to be these mistakes that I can’t see because I don’t have the right training. That my work is actually awful, and I just don’t know it. That someone with a more trained eye will look at it and say, “Oh I see. You don’t have any training at all, do you?”

The only antidote to Marcel?

To agree with him. To nod and say, “You know what, Marcel? You’re right. I probably do suck. My work probably does have 80 million mistakes to the more trained eye. Older, more experienced artists probably do look at my art and laugh. But I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got.”

And then I go back to focusing on the process. I go back to focusing on learning and growing and trying to make up for my lack of training. Maybe this year I’ll find some art friends to go plein air painting with. Maybe I’ll find the extra money to go to the life drawing classes in another city each week. Maybe I’ll make myself draw or paint one thing from life every single day.

The only thing I can do is to keep trying. Because if I listen to Marcel, I’ll give up now, and then I’d really have failed. Sure, older artists couldn’t laugh at me, but I couldn’t look myself in the mirror every morning either.

Some days Marcel will win the battle. But I’m going to make sure that I win the war.