I Want You to Compare
Why one of the most misunderstood creative instincts is actually a master-level skill.
When I was 14, I began taking fine arts classes two nights a week after school.
It was my first introduction to serious art instruction and I loved it. Classes were held in an old boat storage warehouse on the docks of the Long Island Sound. The building echoed the sound of the waves lapping against the peer columns below and rocked slightly during strong winds.
The studios were large and open with broad stained floorboards and cold metal stools covered in paint. The walls had been painted white long ago and now wore the history of decades of critiques with outlines of masking tape and graphite fingerprints. I loved every single thing about this place. The smell of charcoal mixed with oil paints. The quiet reverence. The chaotic energy of a room of young teenagers becoming artists. It would become the gentle experience that prepared me well for the rigor of what was to come in art school a handful of years later.
Figure drawing was my favorite. Especially the quick studies. Those fierce 30-second poses where the goal wasn't precision, but essence. But the part I lived for came after: the long pose. The one we returned to week after week. Where we refined. Adjusted. Again. And again. And again.
That's where I learned how to see. Not just observe, but actually see and develop my critical eye.
Across the studio on Tuesdays sat a quiet girl with short dark hair. She only drew in marker. And she never started over. Ever. She didn't need to. No hesitation. In five strokes she could pin the model's posture, light, and tension to the page. Her work was electric. And at 14 it drove me mad.
I couldn't do what she did. But oh how I wanted to. I watched her for weeks in anger and awe.
I studied her.
I tried every different marker I could find. Watched her hand. Traced her rhythm.
But I couldn't see what she saw. I couldn't unlock her vision.
Eventually, I stopped trying to replicate her vision simply out of exhaustion.
I had grown weary and had also become aware that I had wasted a tremendous amount of time focused on someone else’s way of seeing rather than developing my own.
Eventually, I started to get curious about what my eyes could see. What did I bring to the expression of the figure that was a culmination of my experience? How was I seeing things differently? In essence, I was asking, what was my bold marker move?
That's when comparison stopped hurting and started facilitating my growth. I discovered that my eyes, my way of seeing, enabled me to see not only the entire figure, but the delicate bulge of a vein. The bend of an eyelash, the beauty of a dimpled knee.
My eye was able to take in the details. Really see them. And while the 30 second poses that served my classmate so well with her broad and beautiful interpretations, my work shined in the longer more intimate moments with the figure. I was telling an entirely different story. Not a better one, or a less interesting one, but a narrative that was best illuminated with more time and closer study. (I once spent an entire summer at RISD drawing cross sections of broccoli in their nature lab but that story is for another time).
To this day, I understand this simple aspect to my work. My way of seeing frees the intricate details for the viewer. My favorite way to paint and draw is to get in the duff with the usually overlooked moments. To make clear what has gone unseen. To move slowly. To express the deep intention and essence of a thing.
I’ve learned that when I want to work in a more abstract way, it’s best expressed three dimensionally. This is where my eye aligns in the same way my classmate’s did. The three dimension is my magic marker (In honor of full and completely humorous disclosure, my 14 year old daughter reminds me so vividly of this fellow student. My daughter can do what “marker girl” could with the same effortlessness and confidence of stroke and movement. It’s absolute magic to watch and continues to completely baffle me. In the same way, my daughter cannot yet translate the romance of a single vein, but wow, she’s getting close).
Comparison has served my creative process well in helping to illuminate my creative process and what makes my vision my vision.
Yet, the demonization of comparison is something that gets a lot of attention in creative circles. Like perfectionism, we've been encouraged to think that comparison is the thief of joy, that it's toxic, that it's the enemy of authentic creation. Comparison gets us stuck. Yes, that’s right, comparison and perfection are the problem. Just stop doing those.
No thanks.
I’m not into painting any feeling as an enemy. And the message to just stop doing something, stop feeling something. That’s weird. It’s called bypassing. And psychologically speaking it doesn’t make much sense. Especially when we are talking about a skill that creatives have purposefully refined. It’s like being asked to throw part of our expertise right out the window.
Comparison as an ally
What if comparison, like perfectionism, isn't actually the villain but a misunderstood ally in your creative journey?
When creatives come to me stuck and frustrated, they often confess their problem with comparison as if admitting to a character flaw. They've internalized the message that comparing their work to others means they're doing creativity wrong.
But here's the contradiction: we build creative mastery through observation, through study, through understanding what works and what doesn't. And yes, through comparison.
Contemplate how you learned your craft in the first place?
You studied the masters. You learned from those more advanced than you. Analyzed contemporaries, noticed what resonated and what fell flat. You compared techniques, approaches, and outcomes. Not in an effort to diminish yourself, but to grow.
Noticing the important differences is not a flaw in your process. It is your process. That's how we learn. That's how art evolves.
I want you to compare
Yes, really.
Not to become someone else. Not to feed uncertainty. But to sharpen your vision.
Comparison isn't a threat. It's a tool.
And when used well, it's a catalyst for mastery.
We've been taught to fear it. Told it's the thief of joy.
But that's a misread. A simplification. A distraction.
Comparison only becomes an obstacle when we stop listening to what it's actually trying to tell us.
You were trained to see
You're not comparing because you're insecure. You're comparing because you're trained. You've spent years cultivating your eye. You can see shadow, sound, nuance, structure, tension, gesture. You don't just see a hundred shades of green in a blade of grass, you see the reds and blues that live there too.
The depth of this sight is earned. Practiced. Refined.
Comparison is a byproduct of that vision.
It means you're paying attention. The problem isn’t comparison. It’s when we mistake it for fear instead of letting it be information.
Your eye isn't the enemy. Your eye is the instrument.
The Misunderstanding of Comparison
At its core, comparison serves a purpose. Like perfectionism, it's about seeking safety:
Comparison says, "If I understand where I stand, I'll know what to do next."
Comparison says, "If I can see the difference between my work and theirs, I can find my path."
Comparison says, "If I recognize excellence, I can reach for it."
Competition says, “If I win, I’ll be safe.”
These aren't toxic impulses. They're navigation tools. They're how we orient ourselves in the vast landscape of creative possibility.
But here's where things get tricky: when comparison becomes not a compass but a verdict. When it tells you that you'll never measure up, that you shouldn't even try, that the distance between where you are and where others stand is too great to cross.
That's not comparison failing you. That's comparison without context. Without compassion. Without the full picture, comparison masks as fear.
The Nervous System Connection
When comparison feels excruciating, it's because your nervous system is sending danger signals. It's interpreting the differences comparison illuminates as threats rather than data.
Artists, designers, writers, musicians, thought leaders, we turn our gaze outward, yes. But also inward. And that's where comparison gets complicated. Because we don't just notice brilliance. We notice everything. Every flaw. Every misstep. Every gap between what we see and what we can express. And that can feel brutal.
But the seeing isn't the pain. The pain is forgetting what the seeing is for. You didn't train your eye to critique yourself into silence. You trained it to shape, to refine, to move toward resonance. That discomfort is the edge of breakthrough.
Comparison as expansion
Comparison becomes destructive when we use it to imitate. When we try to copy instead of stretch. You don't need to become someone else. (And you'll never embody their genius better than they can).
There is nothing worse than a poorly executed version of someones else’s genius. The goal is not to recreate their success, but to let their work mirror your ambition.
To ask:
Why does this hit?
What does this wake up in me?
Where is my work ready to grow?
Comparison shows you what matters. It calibrates your creative compass. Used wisely, it doesn't dilute your voice, it refines it.
The Comparison Reframe
So what if we stopped treating comparison as something to overcome and started seeing it as something to master?
What if instead of saying "don't compare," we said:
Compare with context
Compare with curiosity
Compare to connect
Compare to create
Comparison itself is neutral. It's a tool. And like any tool, its impact depends entirely on how you use it.
You can use comparison to hide or to emerge. You can use it to shrink or to expand. You can use it to disconnect from your voice or to find it with greater precision.
If you've been stuck because you've been told to stop comparing, to just "be yourself" and "trust the process", I want you to know it's not your fault. Those are beautiful sentiments, but they're not enough to build a sustainable creative practice.
Instead, try this:
Notice when you compare. Not to judge yourself, but to understand what you're really seeking.
Ask better comparison questions. Don’t start with "Why am I not as good as them?" Although this might be true and is important to know, it doesn’t need to be your entryway. Give your nervous system a break and start with a more gentle question like, "What specifically do I admire about this work, and how might I explore that quality in my own way?"
Expand your comparison field. Don't just compare yourself to the most successful people in your field. Compare across disciplines, across time periods, across your own body of work.
Use comparison as a bridge, not a barrier. Let it connect you to the broader conversation your work is part of.
Remember that comparison is most painful when your nervous system is contracted. The work isn't to stop comparing, it's to expand your capacity to stand in the fullness of where you are while clearly seeing where you might go.
This is what I want for you.
To compare on purpose.
To train your gaze.
To know the difference between envy and direction.
To use comparison as a bridge, not a barrier. Let it connect you to the broader conversation your work is part of.
To know your ability to compare is not something to bypass. It's evidence of your discernment. Your taste. Your commitment to growth. It's one of your most valuable creative assets.
So please, compare. Compare with courage. Compare with clarity. Compare with the confidence that comes from knowing comparison isn't taking you off your path, it's helping you find it with greater precision.
And know that the creative journey isn't about escaping comparison, but about transforming your relationship with it. It's about making comparison work for you rather than against you.
That's not just a powerful practice. That's creative freedom.
More soon,
xxx
Lisa
IN HARMONY
Music serves as a vital source of inspiration in my creative process. It acts as a catalyst, shaping my mood and sparking new ideas. Whether I’m diving into intricate details or dreaming big, the rhythms and melodies guide my thoughts and fuel my imagination. Each song carries its own energy, helping me navigate the complexities of the creative process. Music allows me to let go, surrender to the work, and listen. It is an essential companion.
Once a month, I eagerly share a song that resonates deeply with me. Music has been an unwavering companion in my life, consistently infusing immense joy into my days.
I’ve often said, if you want to get to know me, listen to Radiohead.
They give me AWE. A deep, aesthetic, resonant feeling that words alone can’t quite capture.
It’s impossible to choose a favorite Radiohead song. I genuinely believe each track is a triumph in its own right, a complete, fully realized world. Every song carries its own architecture of emotion, often unpredictable and always honest. And yet, when I sat with the question of how their music makes me feel, it became clear which song best encapsulates the shifts, crescendos, and quiet, intimate moments that for me, define their sound. Radiohead’s music is full of surprises, unfolding slowly, sometimes softly, and other times with overwhelming force.
I’m sure choosing a well-known Radiohead song as a favorite is a major ick in sophisticated music circles. But if being deeply moved by Fake Plastic Trees makes me cringe, so be it. I’ll gladly live with that.
What I love about Fake Plastic Trees are the swells. The way the song builds from a whisper to a roar and then retreats back into a delicate sadness. It mirrors so much of what I find beautiful about music in general: the unpredictable shifts, the breathtaking peaks, and the quiet, reflective moments. It is a song that captures longing, beauty, and despair all at once. And that, to me, is pure genius.
It is a testament to the genius of Radiohead how many different versions of their songs exists as covers. Creep has more than I can count, but I found some favorites of Fake Plastic Trees below. Full disclosure, the Phoebe Bridgers + Arlo Parks version absolutely brings me to my knees.
BY DESIGN
This section of my newsletter began as a resource for my clients, who use Human Design to deepen their creative practice. In Mentorship, we explore Human Design as a starting point and a way to work with creativity as energy to move toward energetic sovereignty and mastery of the creative process.
If you’d like to join us in this weekly practice, download your free Human Design chart and access my HD Starter Kit, including two exclusive free guides to help you tap into creative flow and navigate life with greater ease and mindfulness.
Understanding your chart and the impact of the Gates can unlock powerful insights for this week’s transits and beyond. It is the first essential step to mastering your creative process. I’d love to have you join us.
SOLAR TRANSIT
5-9-25
Gate 23
The Gate of Assimilation
On May 9, the sun gracefully traverses Gate 23, known as the Gate of Assimilation. During this celestial transit, you're invited to embark on a deeply introspective voyage of self-discovery. Gate 23 serves as a conduit for authentic expression, encouraging individuals to embrace unwavering honesty when communicating their truths. This gate advocates for a communication style characterized by directness and conciseness, acknowledging that conveying a message straightforwardly is the most impactful approach. Gate 23 possesses the unique ability to articulate the truth with not only clarity but also a touch of grace.
Gate 23 tasks you with the opportunity to contemplate the certainty of change and transformation. There is always change. There is always transformation. And we are participants in this transformative energy. Gate 23 also provides the opportunity to reflect on your role in change. How your insights can shift the collective and the importance of waiting for the right time to share your insights for change and transformation. Trusting that there is a right time to share your insights and that those who ask for them are the ones who are the most open and ready to receive them. To not push or hustle, but allow for an unfolding during seasons of change.
Here are some journaling prompts to deepen your understanding and engagement with this transit:
1. What truth is ready to be expressed, and what must I release to speak it clearly?
2. How have I transformed recently, and what insight might serve others when the time is right?
3. How can I speak with more clarity and compassion, even when the truth is hard?
4. Where am I being asked to trust the unfolding instead of forcing change?
Next week I’m reflecting on the deeper aspect of some of the work I’ve done with clients over the past five years. I’ve learned a lot, mostly that the Creative Process is HUGE and what a difference in makes in our life when we finally really start paying attention to it.
Inside this week's These Three Things:
When unimaginable tragedy struck our small town, I found myself standing at the edge of collective grief. What lives lost, survival, and countless memorial flowers taught me about our invisible connections, the language of blossoms, and the surprising compassion of financial support.
These weekly reflections are where I share what I'm noticing beneath the surface, where intuition, energy, and creative practice meet. This week, even in our dark moments.
These Three Things is available for paid subscribers only. A quiet, focused space for thoughtful prompts, honest process, and building a reflective creative rhythm, even when the world feels impossibly heavy.
Come take your seat at the table. We begin again each Sunday.
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