11 Jul 2018

Don’t quit the day dream

“To say the the purpose of a business is to make money is like thinking that human beings are on this earth to eat.” - John Mackey, Founder of Whole Foods 

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it is that makes us happy - and what brings us satisfaction in our working lives.  After all, we spend most of our time at our jobs, so what could be more important than what we do for a living?  I think the answer lies in that sentence somewhere; “for a living”.  When all is said and done, what is the underlying purpose that we want to achieve?

I’d like to be very honest here, because out of everything that creative businesses share, I think I hear this one the least:

I - have - a - day - job... There I said it!

I wanted to write about this because people are so secretive on the subject - but I know you are out there, and I also know what hard work it is to keep going!  For most people with a passion for creating, your day doesn’t really end when your day job does.  In fact, it never really ends.  Yet somehow the idea sticks that if you have another job which supports you, you are not really an artist.

So what does make an artist?  

Perhaps it means someone who earns a lot of money from their art.  But should we really be valuing the worthiness  artwork with the money it is putting on the table?  Why should anyone should feel like a worse creative if they don’t pay their rent with pictures?  It doesn't bear any relevance on what you are making.  If anything, it means you are determined to keep creating even if it means working doubly-hard!

Think of it this way - What is it that you love about your favourite painting?  The way it makes you feel or is it all the money it's worth?  Hmm...

Phwoar, check out all that Money
Does being a good artist mean that everything you produce is perfect?

It's doubtful that many people will feel that way about their work.  But I do think that nowadays we are having to put on a little bit of a show for the cameras.  We don’t have the option to hide in an attic for twenty years working on masterpieces.  Everything is visible.  In some ways, social media platforms are quite counter-productive because so much of the creative process is about failing - it's not like a 9-5 job where you can produce work that is meaningful to you in neat and bite size chunks.  You have to create such a lot of work before you can pick out anything good.   

If you ever had a book of sketches, or stories, or songs when you were a teenager then I am certain you remember the feeling.  “No don’t look!”  That’s your raw unshaped heart in there, of course you aren’t going to share that with just anyone!  There has to be a dialogue between yourself first before you can ever start to think about sharing art with anyone else.  And good work is a long time in the making.  A lifetime really.  It can't be pushed ahead of its own pace no matter how hard you try.

Fun fact: Phillip Pullman got a third in his degree at Oxford, and he hates his first novel so much he will not even speak its name in interviews

So what is it that keeps us going?  I think that perhaps we have to decide ourselves what makes it worthwhile for each of us as individuals.

It's not easy.  But, for any fellow creatives who may be struggling with managing their time, and their energy, and think they have reached fullest limits of their strength - just know you are most definitely not the only one.  You have not reached the end of your creative journey.  Not even close.  But whatever you have going for you - whether it’s a fully-fledged business, or a little niggly urge you get when you are feeling dreamy - try and remember to value your work for what it is, and enjoy the process, because creativity is one part of life which doesn’t need validating any other way than that.

Beer, drawing, beautiful view - What it's all about

5 Nov 2017

Home is where the fire is

More than any other time, Bonfire Night conjures up childhood memories.

Even more than Christmas, if you can believe it.  Why should this be?  Christmas is such a big deal for children, and I have many wonderful associations with it.  But somehow, the words "bonfire night" conjure up instant sensory recollections.

I think it might be something to do with the fear I felt at the time.  I was terrified of fireworks.  Never one for loud noises, fast things and big flashes, I favoured the softly whooshing Roman Candle and the Catherine Wheel (my namesake and favourite) which was safely nailed onto a tree.  When you are afraid, your senses are sharper.  I can close my eyes and instantly be back in the dark, damp field behind my childhood home.

Everyone would be gathered outside with numb fingers and noses.  The trees around us were dark shadows against shadows.  November is the perfect time of year to stand by a tower of crackling logs - the air would be so cold that our breath would fog up, yet the heat from the fire was the most intensely hot thing I had ever felt.  I would cringe away from it, the skin on my face burning, yet long to move closer the glowing flames out of the sea of dreaded coldness.

Then toffee apples - fruit! a sour challenging taste for my younger self - smothered in the silkiest, smoothest nectar imaginable was repulsive and delightful all at once.  Next the hiss - bang - sound of the hastily-lit firework.  Watching the tiny spark fleeing upwards into the starry sky, I would crouch down to the ground, unable to bear the tension as I waited for the noise to reach us.  It will always sound muffled to me when I think back.  A pop, penetrated through woolly layers of gloved hands, as I squeezed my them to my ears, and Mum put her hands over mine.

And sparklers... When the whole nightmare show was over, I still had to suffer the exquisite torment of taking one of the beastly things in my hand!  I would hold it, quivering, at arms length, my only defense being the amazing purple gloves I had strung through my coat sleeves, with little people knitted onto the fingers.  "How do you lose them when they are attached to you by a string?!" Mum would ask the general heavens.  A question I still can't answer.  All I know is that they were my favourite gloves, my suit-of-armour against the biting cold, and the burning fire, and the wildly exploding colours all around me.  I felt safe within a world of dangers.  Protected in my family unit against the dark forces all around.

It's kind of the same feeling I have now that I am back living in the countryside.  Nature is leaning in all around me.  It feels as if I am back in her territory again, far away from the city, with its borrowed green spaces parceled up like safe little gifts from outside the urban limits.  Nothing about the English landscape here feels new, or borrowed, or for put there for me.  When I am outside, with the smell of wet earth and rotting leaves, I experience the special privilege of walking along those ancient paths of childhood memory.  And our home is a pool of light and warmth lent to us by the cold, dark wilderness outside.

It's scary and magical all at once, and totally where I want to be.  Particularly on Bonfire Night...