Issue 2: Introduction
When you’re an artist, failure is part of the game. It’s part of any materials-driven process, any process of trying to make an idea meaningful to somebody else. It’s part of any process of working with tools. Any process of refining a concept. Any process of having a conversation with matter, space, or audience.
This realisation hit me hard when I started out working with clay. I discovered very quickly that failed ceramics are extremely permanent things. They don’t decompose and cannot be easily turned into something else. They simply fill the dark corners and closed drawers, seeming somehow both too important to throw away and too revealing to ever see the light of day. “These pieces”, I would tell myself as I tucked them safely out of sight, “will not be artfully arranged to demonstrate my creative process at the next open studios event”. Something in my ceramic failures felt very dangerous: I felt like they had the power to undermine my skills as an artist. To confirm my true identity - imposter. They are, after all, physical evidence of my (lack of) ability, aren’t they?
The thing is, the longer I’ve carried on being an artist, the more I’ve realised that failures aren’t just for beginners. And they aren’t just for artists, either. Failures happen to everyone. And they happen really often in big and small ways. Failing is an unavoidable part of being a living human in a world where not everything is within our control.
So if failure is normal, why does it feel so heavy? Why are some people (myself included) afraid to fail? And why is failure positioned in opposition to success, when they are both part of the same process of learning, living and growing?
Something unexpected happened when someone finally uncovered my stash of ceramic abominations: that person thought they were beautiful. Seeing the clumsy and experimental side of my practice made them feel more connected with my work and my making process, because they could see the places where it had gone awry. They could see evidence of my hands. They liked the element of chaos that these pieces had - the sense of the uncontrollable which would have been impossible to produce on purpose.
This publication originates from a desire to see what other artists are hiding in their studios. It can’t just be me, right? (Right?) Chances are, those failed pieces are going to represent the most fascinating, informative and tender parts of somebody’s process - much more interesting than a polished finale on a gallery wall or Instagram feed.
This publication has another intention, too. By bringing failure out into the open, by sharing failures and by talking about them, I hope that the Catalogue of Failures might gradually contribute to shedding some of the social stigma that hangs around failure. By creating this publication series I hope to help normalise failure and resituate it as both healthy and fruitful. To rework some of the well-worn stories told about failure.
The idea isn’t to apply pressure to shoe-horn failures into successes; it’s simply to be together with our experiences of life’s ups and downs. Being human is pretty challenging sometimes, and things go wrong more often than we’d like. We may each encounter different kinds of failure, and the failures themselves will vary hugely, but failure is inevitable. Taking a moment to acknowledge that vulnerable aspect of our lives is quite a radical thing, when you think about it.
Issue 3: Introduction
If you’re new here, welcome. The Catalogue of Failures is an exploration of failed artworks and art that responds to real-life failures. This issue showcases acts of resistance, anti-monuments, love, loss, experiments, accidents, and the unexplained. I am grateful for the courage, openness and generosity each and every contributor brings when they share their work.
In the UK where the Catalogue is published (and in many places throughout the world), failure is positioned in opposition to success. They exist as two halves of a binary, where ‘good enough’ is rarely the goal. Within that system it’s tempting to try to skew our failures into successes. A quick internet search will pull up hundreds of articles telling you how most of the world’s billionaire entrepreneurs wouldn’t be where they are today without the courage to fail and try again. And its true, failures do present opportunities; we often grow as a person when things don’t go our way, and part of the aim here is to acknowledge and celebrate that growth. At the same time though, this attitude exceptionalises failure. It says ‘success should be the norm, and if we aren’t succeeding right now we should be working towards future success’.
We aren’t here to celebrate failure in that sense. This space is not about toxic positivity. Here, we acknowledge the vulnerability, tenderness, and struggle that failure can bring to our lives just as much as the humour and silliness. Here we learn what it is to share failure for no other reason than to share it and see what happens.
What if failures are actually like seeds? What if conversations about failure could promote community-building - the kinds of communities built around listening, care and mutual respect, rather than competition, judgement and individualism? Perhaps seeing my failure lessens the weight of yours. We all fail after all, more often than many of us would like to admit.
Failure can mean a lot of things. In a year that has so far been dominated by the real-time effects of climate change - floods, ice storms, landslides, heat, wildfires - I have often found myself asking what failure means in this time, on this planet. Spaces of uncertainty, of unpredictability, of improvisation, and of catastrophe seem to be rapidly increasing, and so now more than ever there is a global need for the ability to encounter failure and the unknown. I think about this ability as resilience.
Perhaps it’s a grand claim, that this little publication might support resilience in uncertain and alarming times. But if this Catalogue prompts you to start just one conversation about failure, then perhaps it could plant a seed out there in the world.