My Pretty Little Pet: The Wild Ride of Creating Art

 If you’re an elder millennial like myself , then you most definitely know Tommy Boy—one of the greatest films of all time (in my humble opinion). You probably remember the scene where Chris Farley’s character, Tommy, uses a dinner roll to show how he handles a sale: “I love my pet,  I stroke it, I massage it, and I love it… and then I take my pretty little pet and …..” He crushes the roll, sending crumbs everywhere, with that mix of desperation and over-the-top passion. As an artist, I relate to that moment more than I’d like to admit.

Starting a new piece of art feels just like cradling that dinner roll—my “pretty little pet.” It begins with excitement and hope as I stare at a blank canvas, convinced this might be the one. I fuss over each detail with care, layering colors and textures like they’re the most important thing in the world.

But then, somewhere along the way, things shift. Maybe I get too confident or instinct takes over. Suddenly, my masterpiece turns into something I barely recognize—a chaotic mess. My precious art doesn’t just get a pat on the head; it gets squished in my overenthusiastic hands.

And it stings the most when I care the hardest. Those moments when I’ve poured my heart into a project only to realize I pushed it one step too far. Self-doubt creeps in, whispering, “Why didn’t you stop sooner?” It’s a feeling every creator knows too well.

But here’s the thing: if I treated every piece like fine china, I’d never make anything bold or real. Art, like life, isn’t perfect. It’s messy, full of risks, and sometimes things fall apart. Those “over-loved” moments are where I’ve learned the most—about trusting myself and embracing imperfection.

There’s beauty in letting things get a little wild. Sometimes, after wiping away the metaphorical crumbs, I find that the piece isn’t as ruined as I thought, or I discover a new technique. Art is a living, breathing process, and that’s okay.

So, I’ve learned to laugh when my work takes a Tommy Boy turn. The frustration and “what-have-I-done” moments are proof that I’m putting my heart into my art. And that’s more important than a flawless outcome. Next time I cradle my painting with all the love of Tommy and his roll, I’ll remember: a little squish means I’m on the right track. Because art isn’t about perfect pets; it’s about embracing the process, crumbs and all.