When Medals Don’t Matter: The Art of Letting Go

I’m not athletic, I cut school on Field Day, smoked cigarettes in the outfield during gym class and failed swimming because I was too cold to change into my bathing suit in the middle of winter. I don’t enjoy playing or watching sports, never have and never will.

However, when I was young, I loved watching Olympic figure skating. As a dancer and a budding young artist, I could identify most with this sport as it came closest to artistry than any other. As the years went by, my interest in watching the Olympics sadly waned and I haven’t tuned in to watch any figure skating in decades. I have found that the performances became a bit clinical, stiff and somewhat anxiety ridden. The artistry was lost somewhere along the way and seemingly so was the enjoyment of the athlete. I could see and feel their pressure, and it was no longer enjoyable for me as a spectator.

Since the Olympics began this year, there was so much talk of the remarkable story of Olympic gold medal winner, Alysa Liu, I was encouraged to Google her performance and was so happy I did. I was totally blown away by her grace, joy and authenticity. Her love for the artistry of figure skating shown through in her poetic dance, the music moving within her as she moved with it. Her performance excited me, made me smile and brought me to happy tears.

Her journey is extraordinary. After early competitive success, she stepped away from the sport, disenchanted by the pressure, the expectations, and the incessant focus on medals. When she eventually returned to skating a few years later, she had developed a very different mind-set than she’d had. She spoke openly about wanting to skate for herself, to experience joy again, to focus on expression rather than outcome. Less concerned with winning and more invested in communicating, she skated with new depth and life. By centering on artistic self-expression rather than winning medals, she found her way to both.

As artists, we are constantly negotiating similar pressures. We may not chase Olympic medals, but we know the equivalents: awards, exhibitions, grants, sales, recognition, social media validation. When these metrics quietly migrate from being markers of progress to becoming the reason we create, the work becomes tight, calculated and strategic, rather than exploratory and alive. What would happen if we shifted our focus in the studio from reception to resonance? From asking the question ‘How will this be seen?’ to ‘Am I speaking authentically in this work?’ From ‘Is this good enough?’ to ‘Is this honest enough?’ The paradox is that when we give up the pursuit of external validation, the work deepens — and with that depth comes a different kind of success.

I’m not arguing against ambition here--discipline, craft and showing up all matter in the life of an artist. Years of rigorous training gave Liu the technical vocabulary she needed, but it was only when she released her grip on outcome that the vocabulary became poetry. Liu needed her training and didn’t abandon it; she only transformed her relationship to it. Likewise, our commitment to skill and studio practice is essential. When skill becomes a vehicle for expression rather than a performance of worth, the work sings.

As artists, our job is to nurture conditions where expression can thrive without being immediately leveraged, to embrace risk alongside achievement and to value inquiry as much as outcome. Always holding on to the thought that the most resonant work, whether on ice or canvas, carries the imprint of a person fully present in their practice. When we focus on making art with curiosity and courage, the “medals” take care of themselves.