Why Gen Z Creatives Fear Their Own Hobbies
“ I think writing is the only thing I’m actually good at, so if I’m less than perfect it makes me want to cry.”
My friend Jae, who I occasionally meet up with to write, draw, and bounce ideas off of each other, mentioned this to me a few days ago over Discord, where we now have our “productive creative sessions” in lieu of crowded, overpriced cafes.
In light of the COVID-19 outbreak and precautionary social isolation, those fortunate enough to be able to stay home (myself included) notably have more free time than usual, and everyone from government officials to social media influencers are encouraging the public to spend this time exploring and indulging in their hobbies.
Going back to what Jae said, I noticed that this isn’t the first time anyone I know has felt anxious about doing something that they love — I empathised as I occasionally feel apprehensive when I sit down to draw something, write a story, or do anything that involves trying to express an idea just for the sake of it, and I’ve realised that plenty of my peers have expressed similar sentiments.
Note: These experiences may not be universal, (who am I to speak on behalf of an entire generation?) but as a student in a creative field, my social network both within and outside of my school life majorly consists of other creatives, hence these observations are based on those around me.
I don’t mean to nor wish to echo the nagging of older generations, but there’s no denying that social media has shifted our views on creating things. On one hand, content creators make it exponentially easier to learn new skills or to find inspiration for our passions projects, but seeing the endless sea of examples by said creators, especially those that are already masters of their crafts and are popular online can just as easily be what pushes budding creatives into the chasm of discouragement. With or without the internet, comparing oneself to others is embedded in human nature, but online communities intended to grow your passion can also amplify that voice at the back of your head telling you that you’ll never be good enough till it’s louder than the artistic voice you may be trying to cultivate.
Vanity metrics only complicates it further. How much time do I spend checking the likes on an illustration I’ve posted? How fruitful is it for me to research and reflect on building a following on the Instagram account I dedicate to uploading my artwork? For some, creating something that isn’t good enough to share online is just as good as not creating anything at all. Is it worth spending so much time and energy producing something if nobody’s there to see or appreciate it? If I shout into an empty room, does what I say matter since nobody heard it?
Taking that into consideration, for a lot of creators the numbers on your profile does not directly reflect on their self worth or their skill level; it’s nothing personal! On the contrary, those numbers could show statistics for a potential customer base. Creativity does serve as an outlet for personal expression, but a lot of us actively try to turn our crafts into commodities. When I quoted Jae at the beginning of this article, it was in the context of them needing examples on hand to advertise writing commissions. A friend of mine with a passion for fashion now curates then sells second hand clothes. Just about every other person I know that runs an art account on social media has had links to commission information, merch stores, or to online tip jars like Ko-fi on their profiles, and I myself have recently set up a Redbubble store, in an attempt to make the hours I spend on my illustrations feel more worthwhile.
A lot of us were brought up with the mentality that the profitability in an activity is what decides it’s worth, and even if that wasn’t the case, artists need money to live, just as everyone else does. Gen Z is known to worry about saving money, and even though we may not be the most well versed in financial matters, our monetary concerns often gets in the way of our passion projects. It doesn’t help that art can be an expensive hobby — between paying for the occasional workshop or online course, and purchasing supplies or paying for creative softwares, doing what you love can also burn a hole in your pocket.
On that note, our boundaries surrounding doing what we love have become a bit hazy. “Do what you love, and love what you do”, but what context should the phrase be applied to, career choices or our personal lives? With the emergence of the gig economy, content creation as a full time job, and the broadening pathways of tertiary education, the idealistic mentality of being able to do anything if you believe is more plausible than ever, but in the same vein, failure to do so is more frustrating than it could have been in a time where the world wasn’t at our fingertips.
Generation Z is a puzzle in itself; we’ve been observed to be the most open minded, perceptive and autonomous compared to older generations, but we’re also statistically the most depressed and anxious. In the mid 2010s, when I had only just embraced the social media craze, I recall seeing the phrase “depressed kids are better at art” go around online.
I find some truth in that statement: a lot of people turn to creativity as a means of expression and escapism when life gets sour, and as a result, they convey emotions authentically while also growing artistically. But what happens when art becomes another thing that makes you feel depressed? Our generation represents a time of shifting landscapes in media, technology, social norms and more, so how do we embrace what shaped our mindsets without letting it dampen our passions and creativity?
