Courage For Failure.

The greatest teacher I’ve ever had is failure.

The ruins of my life collect themselves in the dimple on my left cheek. Lessons. Buried into my skin like a static charge I can’t shake. I have failed so many times in life that when I leave a room I’m not sure if I’m carrying off with me the cracks in the walls. For each success that sticks to my gait, disfigured blunders are left strewn in my wake like a blood trail in the sand. I don’t know if I’m a failure who’s managed to win or a winner who’s hidden his losses.

I’m aware that I may appear ridiculous to those free from looking at the world in this simplified manner. Why focus on winning in the creative field? The intangible is our friend. We must follow our instincts, emotions, feelings—not numbers. Yet a decade of sports has meant that for better or for worse, the competitive strain is beaten into me. Every quest I chase in life seems to beg the question of whether it’s a success or failure, win or loss, triumph or tragedy.

Obsession with success leads to a twisted life, a life where we want to win more than we want to live. An obsession with failure leads to self-sabotage, hesitation, paralysis and quiet desperation. Life should be about the pursuit of something meaningful, in the sense that we should feel present in both laughter and tears, fear and love.

There is something significant about the failures which wrap themselves around our lives. Gnarled tragedies like thorny roses become preludes to grace, to beauty, to love. ‘Style is the summary of one’s flaws,’¹ for it informs the way we live our lives. Our most painful failures become incentives to change. Style; the way we do things, is a direct response to the ugly experiences overcome or struggling against. There is no more forceful way to learn a lesson but to face a painful truth. It’s simply impossible to look at the world the same after it. It destroys, yes. But it also informs a new methodology. If you can’t go over, go around. If you can’t go around, go under. Beautiful souls are shaped by ugly experiences.

When I observe the lives of artists who’ve come before me, I don’t seek out their greatest successes. Instead, I look for inflexion points, for moments where it looked like all was lost, only to discover that it was the key to a door that could only have been unlocked this way. Looking at the world in such a way feels to me, like a relief. A shoulder-sinking, forehead smoothing relaxation that tells me that—we’re going to be okay. If failure means a greater nuance in style, we can face fear with more vigour.

Are failures more meaningful than success?

I don’t know. But I like the scuff on your shoulder more than I’d like knowing you could jump from that roof to another. I like the subtlety of your nervous tick more than I like the solidity of your gleaming badge. I see false pride in wins unfairly won. I see prowess in failures overcome. It shows me that you tried. It shows me that you care. It shows me you’re alive. You’re human, after all.

This week, I participated in a challenge that guaranteed failure at worst and imperfect completion at best. I directed a Straight-8 film. It consists of capturing a three-minute short film inside of one roll of Super 8. The most terrifying part is, there is no edit. You shoot the entire film inside of the roll in chronological order and send the film off for development without seeing the footage. You send a corresponding audio track alongside it and see it for the first time in the cinema seats of the film festival. It’s like writing a book that you can only review once it’s been published. No edits. As soon as a word is typed out, onwards is where you must go.

Numerous times throughout the pre-production of my straight-8 film, I felt like I failed. Three times I got stood up, my actors deserting me and disappearing as if a figment of my imagination. When I finally managed to complete the film, I felt humbled. I felt like I knew a hell of a lot less about my craft than I thought I did. Because the format is set up with strict limitations, it promotes imperfection. It shows you who you are as an artist at an instinctual level. Every flaw is visible in the final product, every hole and mishap, every serendipitous moment. There’s no way to kid yourself. No way to airbrush an image, or beautify it with bells and whistles—it is what it is.

Working this way allowed me to focus on what was happening in front of the camera more than what occurred behind it. Instead of placing energy into making something overly aesthetic, I tried to focus on the content of the film in the hopes that it could transcend the medium. A good story remains a good story regardless of aesthetics. To me, this felt like a fresh approach because in the world I work in—fashion and commercials—aesthetics can be over-valued.

Whilst attempting to keep my faith strong during the various setbacks which accosted the project, I listened to lectures by sculptor Tom Sachs. One of his strategies is transparency, showing every part of his sculpting process by deliberately exposing the materials which hold the piece together. Screws, foam, glue, tape, scribbles or rust— all these details remind us that mistakes can be beautiful too.

“If you look at a car today versus 35 years ago, you can see that the evidence of its construction now is completely removed. Occasionally you’ll see a seam in the meld where the two pieces of plastic were melded together. When you see my work, you can see the fibreglass tape that holds it together and all the screws, and I think what holds it together is . . . the magic, the part that’s got the soul or the truth or the interest. I believe that showing everything is the most courageous thing that you can do.” — Tom Sachs

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Failure or success becomes a marker only when we draw a finish line in the sand. If instead of focusing on failure we focus on having the most meaningful experience, failure becomes something we can face with excitement rather than dread.

The artist who never fails is the artist who never risks. The one who hides their flaws never unveils their style, their voice, their uniqueness of perspective. If our failures are like the brushstrokes on the canvas of a life’s work, then let’s paint with boldness, with imperfection and without hesitation.

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1. Michel Houellebecq expressed this in a much better way.