Sharing the messy, imperfect parts of your creative process actually creates deeper connections with your audience than polished perfection ever could.
Last week, I spent four hours carefully sculpting delicate facial features on a new character, only to watch the clay crack as it dried. My first instinct? Delete the photo evidence, pretend it never happened, and start over with a "perfect" process post for Instagram.
But here's the thing I'm learning: when you're vulnerable in your art writing, instead of throwing tomatoes at you, people begin to smile and come closer. The messy, imperfect moments aren't Instagram-worthy accidents to hide—they're the real story of becoming an artist.
Scroll through any artist's Instagram and you'll see a parade of perfect studio setups, flawless sculptures fresh from 3D printers, and LED lights that work perfectly on the first try. What you don't see are the twenty failed prints that came before, the LED circuits that shorted out, or the moments of staring at a half-finished piece wondering if you've completely lost your artistic mind.
I used to curate my content this way too. Every behind-the-scenes shot was carefully staged. Every "work in progress" photo showed only the good angles. I thought this was what people wanted to see—proof that I had it all figured out.
Three months ago, I was working on a character I'd been excited about for weeks. The 3D printed base looked perfect. The clay details were coming together beautifully. Then came time to integrate the LEDs—the part that always makes my pieces feel magical.
Nothing worked.
The a part of the light was failing. The lights were too harsh. The placement looked awkward. I spent two days trying to fix it, watching YouTube tutorials, and honestly? Having a few small breakdowns in my studio.
My old self would have waited until I fixed everything to share anything about this piece. But something made me post a photo of the mess—wires everywhere, clay dust on my hands, that particular expression of artistic frustration that every creator knows.
The response wasn't what I expected. Instead of crickets or judgment, I got messages from other artists sharing their own "disaster" stories. A sculptor told me about the time their entire piece collapsed the night before a gallery opening. A digital artist shared how they once lost three days of work to a corrupted file.
More importantly, I heard from people who aren't artists themselves but follow my work. They told me how refreshing it was to see the real process, how it made them appreciate the finished pieces even more. Our vulnerability and authenticity resonate with collectors, not the walls we put up.
My art tells stories from the Dreamshard universe—a world where things are broken, where memories are fragmented, where characters are searching for truth in a corrupted system. How could I tell these stories authentically while hiding my own cracks and failures?
Each character I create carries part of their journey in their design. The LED lights aren't just pretty effects—they represent hope in darkness, the spark of memory trying to break through. But those lights only matter because of the darkness around them.
The same is true for my creative process. The struggles, the failures, the moments of doubt—they're not bugs in the system. They're features. They're what make the successes feel real.
Now, I try to show both sides. When a 3D print fails, I share it (along with what I learned). When my clay work isn't cooperating, I document the process of working through it. When I'm stuck on a character's story, I talk about the creative block and how I'm navigating it.
This doesn't mean sharing every single mistake or turning my social media into a complaint session. It means being honest about the journey. It means allowing vulnerability into your art writing to create intriguing, intimate connections with your audience.
If you're hiding your process because it's not perfect, consider this your permission to stop. Your followers aren't looking for perfection—they're looking for connection. They want to understand how art happens, not just see the final result.
Share the print that didn't work. Talk about the technique you're still learning. Show us the studio chaos that leads to beautiful work.
The next time you see a finished artwork that takes your breath away, remember there's a story behind it. There are failed attempts, learning curves, and moments where the artist wondered if they should give up.
That's not a flaw in the creative process—it's the whole point. Art isn't about having it all figured out. It's about being brave enough to keep creating, even when things don't go according to plan.
