The Taste Gap (And Why Your Art Is Trash at First... But That’s Okay)

The Taste Gap: You know your work sucks. You’re not wrong. But it’s not because you’re bad—it’s because your taste is good. Let’s talk about that weird little hell.

When I first started out as a cartoonist, I thought I was pretty good. Not, like ‘Pat Oliphant hot shit’—more like ‘Mid-2000s Gawker hot shit.’ Which is to say: confident, under-edited, and mostly noise. Emphasis on shit.

I was pretty sure I had taste. I knew what good looked like. I knew Richard Thompson¹ could draw a fencepost with three lines and make it feel like the whole emotional weight of suburbia hinged on that fencepost. I knew a Roz Chast squiggle could hold more neurosis than a whole year of tele-therapy. I knew what worked.

And then I tried to do it myself.

Spoiler: it did not work. At all. The punchlines were obvious. The drawings were stiff. Everyone’s arms looked like soggy churros. I once drew a hand that looked like an undercooked prawn trying to dial a phone. I knew it was bad—and worse, I knew why.

It’s what Ira Glass famously calls “The Taste Gap.” (He didn’t trademark it, but he probably should’ve.) It’s that weird, humiliating limbo between what you love and what you’re currently capable of making without weeping into your cup noodles.

Here’s the thing nobody tells you: The better your taste is, the more painful the gap feels.

It’s like having the palate of a Michelin inspector, but the only thing you know how to make is singed toast and runny scrambled eggs. And yet you keep making those eggs. Over and over. Because one day, maybe, you’ll finally Bourdain something that doesn’t taste like pure regret on toast.

Experimenting with different styles and inks. Also, drugs apparently?

Most people quit in the middle of the gap.

Which makes sense. It’s dark in there. There’s a lot of echo. And the only way out is through volume. You have to make an unreasonable amount of stuff.² Embarrassing amounts. The creative equivalent of lifting weights in a Planet Fitness parking lot while wearing Crocs. (I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it.)

But every now and then, after years of crumpled pages and flopped sets and jokes that landed with the grace of a cinder block to the face, you’ll crap out something that feels… right?

It won’t be perfect. But it will match your taste. And you’ll think: “Oh. I’m getting closer.” And that’s enough.

At least until tomorrow, when you make something new and the gap yawns open again like a sinkhole in your soul. But that’s just the process.

Anyway.

‘til next time!
Your pal,

PS. If anyone wants a cartoon of an undercooked prawn trying to dial a rotary phone, my inbox is open.