I’ve always been fascinated watching people do something they’re good at. The Olympics. Opera and symphony performances. Artists in their studios.

Watching experts at work became even more of a spectator sport since the advent of competition programming on television, from The Great British Baking Show to my current obsession, Blown Away (featuring top-of-their-game glassblowers). Having this window into other people’s worlds is fascinating; it’s the kind of “reality TV” that inspires rather than deadens the senses.

It’s been said that competence is interesting; that may be so, but brilliance? Brilliance is sheer pleasure to watch.

Which has me thinking about my own areas of competence (and, hopefully, occasional brilliance): writing. I write novels. I write poetry. It takes a long time.

I try to imagine one of those shows that would take place in my competency area. Ready, set, go! She frowns at the computer screen. She types a few words. She types some more. She sighs, leans back in the chair, swivels so she can gaze out the window. Turns back to the screen. Deletes what she wrote a few minutes before. Sighs again. Writes. Writes some more. Swears under her breath. Gets herself a glass of water. Gets herself a cup of coffee. Checks her email. Goes back to her writing.

I could go on, just as I do every day. Watching me work might be marginally more interesting than watching paint dry, but only just.

What this means is that, until a book comes out or a poem gets published or I present a program for a library, I feel in my heart of hearts that I’m doing nothing. I sit for hours and feel at the end of the day like I’ve produced very little. I have nothing concrete to show for my time, my focus, my work. People call and ask me what I’m doing and the answer is always the same. I’m working. Doing what? they ask, and I don’t know how to answer. Changing the placement of a comma? Putting in a few paragraphs and rewriting them ten times?

That’s why I am jealous beyond words of visual artists. They have something to show for their time and effort and expertise. A canvas with paint on it. Wood that has been perfectly turned. A form emerging from a block of stone. Beauty or rage or joy becoming real, concrete, accessible. 

Not anything like what I do. Not anything like the two thousand words I produce on a good day.

 It’s not just about the volume of work we produce, though. Visual art helps us understand our history, our culture, our lives, and the experience of others in ways that can’t be attained through writing or music. Visual art can even foster collaboration between different societies—cooperation between artists from conflicting peoples, or touring art shows that bring real-world issues to distant populations, are essential to raising levels of understanding between cultures.

I’m thinking of the art of Käthe Kollwitz, for example. She was a German artist whose prints, woodcuts, and sculptures empathetically portrayed human suffering, capturing the anguish and plight of the impoverished and injured in a country torn apart by war. Or Colombian artist Fernando Botero's paintings depicting abuse in the Abu Ghraib prison. Or popular street artist Banksy, whose images in public places draw attention to environmental issues and poverty.

These artists are able to document our collective present with an immediacy that I don’t think writing can attain. Visual art is a deceptively simple way to access cultures, ideas, and feelings that might otherwise be forgotten or disregarded.

So, yeah—I’m jealous of visual artists. But more importantly, I’m in awe of them. And deeply grateful that we can watch them work and be ourselves elevated in the process.