Lead like an Artist: Where Wonder Meets Color, Courage, and Form

Guest Post by Erika Powell

Two weeks ago, I sat at my kitchen counter with a brand-new box of acrylic inks, ready to play. The colors shimmered in their bottles, promising beauty if only I could use them “right.” I had prepared like a good student — watched a 35-minute tutorial, carved out uninterrupted time, and stacked my materials neatly within reach, my counter cleared just enough to make space between the bills and unopened mail.

I wanted this to be my moment — to create, to belong in the world of art.

My fingers trembled with delight as the ink bled unpredictably across the page. Blue, then orange, then purple, and finally magenta. They pooled and merged, leaving me hypnotized. Then, with one careless flick of my wrist, the bottle I had gingerly set back toppled over.

Ink spread everywhere like tendrils, curling into corners, reaching toward the bank statements and appointment reminders I’d shoved aside as if the colors refused to be contained by lines. Panic rose as the color crept farther. I leapt up as if caught in a sudden downpour of multicolored raindrops, scrambling to protect my chairs and floors, frantically grabbing paper towels to sop up the mess while muttering curse words under my breath so as not to alarm my neighbors.

That’s when my inner critic seized the chance and hissed:

“See, you’re not really an artist.” “You should have studied this more.” “Why do you always think you can just wing it?”

Her words felt louder than the spill. My chest tightened; my pulse drummed in my ears. But the ink was faster than me. It seeped into the fabric of the chairs, spiraling from the quartz countertop onto the floor — into the cracks of my composure one drop at a time.

The spill wasn’t just a reminder of how little control I had. It was also a doorway — back to a truth I’d first encountered decades earlier in a very different setting.

I was fifteen, sitting in a crowded high school auditorium waiting to hear the poet I would soon know as Sonia Sanchez. Twenty rows back, tucked in the middle, I watched her approach the stage. Like the tipped ink bottle, her small, almost delicate stature carried surprising color. Draped in deep purple with pops of mustard yellow, she appeared timeless, illuminated in the natural light that flooded the space.

Her quiet presence stood unshaken against the restless energy of teenagers — sneakers squeaking, whispers floating, bodies fidgeting. She cleared her though and took a deep breath in. Then she opened her mouth, and her words thundered through the room. Each landed in my body like a lightning bolt — raw, rhythmic, unapologetic.

My breath slowed as the rhythm of her words filled the air and syllable by syllable landed in my chest. It was the first time I felt the force of language as creation, how a single voice could shape a whole room, bending teenage angst into reverent silence, into wonder.

For the first time, I realized language wasn’t just for essays or exams. Words could carve silence. Words could rearrange a room. Words could create.

I wish I could say Sonia inspired me to become a poet. She didn’t. I was too self-conscious, too focused on grades and college applications to frolic in the wonder of words. But I left that assembly changed. In fact, I often credit her with saving my life. Her marks — though not written on a page — landed in me making me realize that I wanted to have that kind of impact someday. She made me want to live with raw authenticity, to make marks that mattered even if they weren’t neat.

Fast forward, decades later, when I found my way back to that lesson. This time there was no stage — only a conference room where I guided leaders and their teams through an arts-based activity to spark the creativity, alignment, and connection they needed to solve their current problem, align, and move through the conflicts and challenges that had risen.

The task was simple: clay keychains. Shape, dry, decorate. The plan was neat, sequential, controllable. Except the clay refused to dry. My perfectionist self spiraled — muttering about timing, execution, how I “should’ve tested this better.” Heat rose in my cheeks as I imagined the whole activity collapsing.

But when I looked around, no one else seemed bothered. They were laughing, leaning over their tables, pressing shapes into the bright clay with curiosity, delighted by what their hands were making. They weren’t waiting for a perfect outcome. They were absorbed in the process — alive in the wonder only creativity can bring.

No longer a fifteen-year-old girl, but now a leader helping other leaders with their teams, I realized: people don’t need perfect execution. They need permission to wonder and create together, even when things spill and even when the tools break down.

That night, as I wiped the last of the magenta from the corners of my counter, I knew it wasn’t just the mess I was wrestling with. It was a bigger insight about leadership.

Leadership, like art, is never about keeping the canvas clean or getting it “right.” It’s about making marks anyway — trembling, imperfect, unfinished — while staying present with what is unfolding.

I thought back to Sonia Sanchez and my fifteen-year-old self. Her voice raw and unapologetic, showing me — as the ink reminded me now and as the clay had done in the past — that leadership lives where wonder, courage, and form meet.

From the first shape you made to the way you shape the world today, your power as a leader flows from the art of creation — unlocking authenticity, courage, and vision.

Wonder helps us notice what’s alive in ourselves and our teams. It’s the first stroke of color that expands the palette and opens up new inquiries leading us to unforeseen possibilities. Whether facing a big spill or not, wonder is the step back that takes us beyond ordinary ways of seeing. Part awe, part curiosity, it prompts us to ask questions, to make meaning, to experiment. It reminds us that nothing is fixed — everything is alive with possibility if we dare to look again.

Courage dares us to make marks anyway when the path is unclear or chaotic. It isn’t the absence of the critic whispering “not enough.” It’s creating anyway — still learning, still daring, still making marks inside the unknown. It’s pressing forward with trembling hands and no guarantee the work will hold, be appreciated, or have the impact we desire.

Form is what emerges — flaws and all, shaped by the fingerprints of everyone involved. It’s the container for expression, the vehicle that makes the invisible visible. More than shape or structure, form carries meaning, spirit, and emotion. It constrains and liberates. It’s how we infuse our work with presence, bridging inner and outer, self and other.

Sonia thundered her truth into a room of restless teenagers, and it became form in me. The ink bled across my counter, and it became form in the insight it carried. The clay refused to dry, and it became form in the laughter and fingerprints pressed into it.  

Wonder, courage, and form are the artist’s tools. Color is what gives us texture and brings our work to life. It is the energy of creation itself, taking us out of black and white binaries, layering in streaks of shadow and light. Color refuses perfection – it stains, it blends, it surprises. It is the constant thread that makes the medium or canvas come alive, insisting on being seen in all its shades and tones. 

This juncture is what leaders are called to now. We live in a world that refuses to stay inside the lines — shifting economies, new technologies, polarized communities, waves of uncertainty that won’t wait for us to catch up. These times require leaders with the audacity to create when the canvas is blank, the courage to trust their imperfect marks, and the vision to hold the beauty that emerges from the mess.

Because plans spill like ink. Strategies dry slowly like stubborn clay. Old systems crumble as new ones are born. No leader can control every variable. 

What matters now is not precision, but imagination. Not certainty, but courage. Not polish, but presence.

The world doesn’t need flawless leaders. It needs leaders who can lead like artists — daring enough to spill color across the canvas, steady enough to trust the messy strokes, stirring wonder, shaping form —and still daring to create one courageous act at a time.

Written by Erika Powell, Founder of The Powell Consulting Group. Erika creates spaces where truth, creativity, and courage spark authentic connection—guiding leaders and teams to transform how they work and relate with clarity and aliveness. Visit www.thepowellconsultinggroup.com to learn more.

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