Recently, I’ve started painting, and I mean truly awful painting. Makeup as paints,
overused toothbrushes as paintbrushes on a to-do list paper I’m about to throw
away. The kind you see in a postmodern exhibition and wonder how they ever could
have reflected something in real life. I’ve also been going to the gym, baking
unnecessarily complicated desserts, and video journaling just for myself. There’s a
thrill in having none of it for anyone else to see, or in none of it being particularly
good. That, strangely, feels like the entire point.
Being bad at something has become one of the most freeing experiences I’ve had in
years. I highly recommend it to anyone and everyone. In every corner of life, there’s
a metric. Grades, deadlines, likes, steps, savings. Every minute is weighed and
measured, every effort stacked against someone else’s. But when I’m painting or
making cakes that look more like stale dog biscuits, or trying out new makeup
techniques, being horrible at things is fun. There’s a lack of identity, an ego death
that makes the next step feel like a pleasant surprise rather than a necessity. There
are no goals, no audience, no aesthetically pleasing outcome. It’s just me, messing
up, and being perfectly fine with that. If you’ve already accepted, you’ll ‘fail’, you can
finally relax and have fun with it.
It’s strange how rare that feeling has become. Somewhere along the way, hobbies
stopped being things we did to unwind and became things we’re expected to be
good at and maintain in shape. Somewhere along the way, we traded curiosity for
competence. If you draw, you should open a shop. If you bake, you should promote
them online. We’ve become consumers of other people’s hobbies instead of
participants. We’ve convinced ourselves that if it isn’t useful or productive, it isn’t
worth doing. We feel uneasy at the lack of external validation, as if fun alone can’t
justify our time.
There’s a certain peace in doing something nobody will ever clap for, just the hum of
being enough. It’s a self-acceptance, a recognition that even though it’s not
revolutionary, it’s mine. It’s something deeply pleasing in the things that almost work, like the song that almost lands, the cookie that almost rises, the painting that almost
looks realistic. Especially for femme-presenting people, trying out makeup without
rules is freeing. Blending colours that don’t match, layering shades that shouldn’t
work, and experimenting with geometry becomes a playful experiment.
The irony is that hobbies are what keep us from burning out in the first place. The old
phrase “don’t quit your day job” is meant to mock someone for being bad at their
passion, like the Britain’s got talent singing fail compilations. In reality, hobbies are
why we feel regenerated, they’re the part of life that belongs solely and entirely to us.
A “secret garden” of sorts, an inside joke only we are privileged to. Hobbies are a
pleasure with no receipts needed.
When I started journaling again, I realised how foreign it felt to do something without
making it known and advertised. The words weren’t meant to be profound, and very
few upon reflection were coherent. But that private space, unedited and unseen,
became a prized ritual. In a world of AI infiltrating art spaces, it’s important more now
than ever than to recognise that although AI is more accurate and realistic, human
art is more authentic and touching in its setbacks.
Perfection is sterile. Real care is letting the batter burn, the brush slip, and still being
happy with the final product. It’s fulfilling to feel seen and at the same time realise not
everything you do needs an audience. Bad art doesn’t need you to impress, it just
needs you to show up. Not winning, not completing, just trying. A jack of all trades,
master of none.
We act like being good at something immediately makes it worthwhile, as if joy
needs talent’s permission slip. When I paint badly or sing nonsense, I’m reminded
that not everything needs to be consumed. I don’t owe anyone a finished product or
an eye-opening explanation. The act itself is enough. Hobbies re-teach us the art of
beginning badly, because that’s the only way anything new ever begins.
Bad pastimes are a micro-practice for handling bigger imperfections. So, I’ll keep
baking things that don’t rise, painting things that make no sense, and writing things
that no one reads. Because these little, imperfect tasks remind us that it’s okay to be
unfinished.
Maybe that’s the quiet rebellion, to do something badly loudly and proudly and love it
anyway.
Eloise Reid (she/her)
qmunicatemagazine.co.uk 