I’ve seen the same advice time and time again, “The difference between being a professional and being a hobbyist is that a professional works even when they don’t feel like it.” And, whilst I agree with the sentiment, I’ve never found rules like this particularly useful.
The thing with people, art, and work is that there’s nuance. People are complex and so is the creation of art. There are some days when I just don’t feel like doing the work. And so, according to the advice, this means I’m not a ‘professional’ anymore – but it ignores the reason why I don’t feel like it.
Art needs space and time. Space and time to reflect on what I’m thinking, how I’m feeling, what’s important to me. There are moments of the year where that space is difficult to get – and it’s not my fault. Life happens – pets die, friends (or I) get Covid, natural disasters happen, the world keeps moving. When one is busy dealing with the bottom of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, there’s very little space and time for the top of the pyramid.
Art needs some certainty. If there are moments in my life that are uncertain – maybe I don’t know if I have a job next week – it’s very difficult to add uncertainty to the mix. Art is all about risk-taking – starting on a journey with an unknown endpoint. With additional uncertainty, there’s often no room left to add even more risk.
Art needs novelty. The idea of the introverted artist sitting alone in their garret pumping out artwork is romantic but basically impossible – for me anyway. Sure, there are moments of deep execution that are required to make the work, but they often proceed from moments of new-ness and novelty – being inspired by a conversation in a cafe, or someone else’s art hanging in an exhibition, a new environment to immerse in, or a change of scenery or friendships to explore. Without novelty, without natural stimulus, the spark of the questions that are required for art-marking are more difficult to come by.
And so, if what art needs is space, time, some certainty and some novelty, and those things aren’t there for periods of time, is it no surprise that the motivation to make art goes away? It’s not that I don’t feel like it, it’s just that, I can’t. I know what’s needed, but other things take priority – just for now. But, in the absence of those conditions for art-making, and the Western idealogy of “Personal achievement and control, above all else” it’s easy to blame oneself; to put it down to a ‘lack of professionalism.’
Today, I just don’t feel like it. I know it’s not a fear of making bad work that’s preventing me from it. Nor is it some personal failing of not trying hard enough. Sure, I could force the conditions to become true – create certainty, novelty, space and time to make more art – but sometimes taking a break is also OK. The cult of productivity is only growing stronger; take more action, not less, to achieve your destiny! But perhaps what art really needs is patience – patience to observe and listen to one’s own way of interacting with the world so that when the time is right, the art is, too.