We all have bad days at work. I used to have a lot of them. Long hours, hostile colleagues, the type of stress that makes you want to pull your hair out. At the end of days like this, I looked back on them and struggled to feel as though I had accomplished anything at all.
On days like this, I used to think the best thing I could do to recover from it all was to heat a ready-made meal, fire up the TV and lose myself in another episode of my favourite familiar sitcom. On days like this, the last thing I felt like doing is coming home and getting the watercolours out or writing the next page of a manuscript.
But here’s the thing…
I found that if I got to the end of a day and I hadn’t done just one thing for myself, I felt even worse. If I hadn’t chipped away at a poem, or added another 300 half-arsed words to my latest story, or at least drawn a few doodles, the feeling of wading through mud only increased.
In the same way that people who drink coffee ‘need one’ to kickstart the day, or someone practising mindfulness or meditation doesn’t feel ‘normal’ until they’ve had their 5-minutes of presence, art-making became that one thing for me. Maybe that ‘one thing a day’ can be making something. Anything. Progress.
I believe in this idea so much that I’m sharing my home-studio broadcasting setup for any other illustrators or creative people who think they can also try to do something for these communities. So here it is, warts and all.
Being clear on goals
Because I don’t work digitally, sharing my work and giving audiences a real insight into my process can be hard. So, to begin, it was important for me to be very clear on the goals of my live-in-studio broadcasts for regional and remote schools in Australia.
Goal: Give kids, teachers, and parents a *real* look at what a day in my studio looks like
I’ve seen plenty of tutorials and other artists doing similar things online, but it’s always quite performative. They only ever show the work. Not the artist, or the space, and for me, that’s one of the most important and revealing aspects for the audience.
Show the work – It’s important that people can see what’s happening – what I’m working on and how I’m achieving the results. For that, I invested in a dedicated overhead camera called a document camera. It was $99 online.
Show the artist – Most artists hide themselves, but, to be honest, I make some pretty funny faces when I draw. Sometimes I’m really concentrating, other times I’m laughing at my own creations. No matter what, I’m always having fun. To show *me* as I’m working, I use the webcam from my laptop.
Show the space – Most people assume I’m working from some dedicated studio with beautiful lighting, white walls and succulents everywhere. Nope. It’s a spare room in my house. It’s mainly controlled, artifical lighting and, well, there’s stuff everywhere. For this, I use my mobile as a roaming camera to show people the chaos in which I create.
Free Streaming software called OBS (Open Broadcast Software). This is the engine room and it’s what allows me to do Picture-in-Picture as well as switch easily between Picture-in-Picture and Roaming camera views quickly and easily. If you’re working digitally you can also do a picture-in-picture screen-share (instead of using the overhead camera). OBS is free and easy to use (and REALLY powerful if you want it to be).
YouTube (or Twitch).YouTube allows live streaming at different privacy levels and is probably the most accessible across schools, so that’s why I choose this. Once I’m all set up on my end, I can send a school a link at a scheduled time and we’re on!
You can make it as complicated or as simple as you want, this is just what I’ve found to be the best mix, for me. In its simplest form, you can use a webcam and YouTube and cut out OBS all together.
How it works
The end result on YouTube looks something like this above. You can see which device each feed is coming from, and this is all put together by OBS in real-time. I leave my YouTube feed ‘unlisted’ which means only people with a link can access it.
LiveDroid is a piece of software that I’ve installed on my phone that turns my mobile camera into a roaming camera so people can see how messy my space really is. I then connect this to OBS through my wi-fi (instructions online).
Setting up my feed in OBS
OBS is amazing for running a multi-cam setup. I have 2 ‘scenes’ set up in OBS.
The first scene is my picture-in-picture scene. This ‘scene’ is composed of 2 ‘sources’ (i.e camera feeds). I keep my ‘illustrator cam’ in the bottom corner so viewers can watch me and all my weird faces that I make as I’m making art. My overhead cam takes up the larger portion of the screen so viewers can get the best picture I can make for them for the artwork.
The second scene is my ‘movable cam’ scene which is just one camera (my mobile). When I’m streaming, I can easily switch between ‘scenes’ to change which camera the viewers see. So, I can be illustrating away in the first scene and switch to ‘movable cam’ to give viewers a closer look at something, then switch right back.
Sending my stream to YouTube
Once I’ve got OBS configured, I’m ready to ‘send to YouTube’. First things first, I open YouTube and create a “Live Stream”. I followed these instructions to get it set up.
Once the stream is set up in YouTube I get a ‘stream key’ that I put into my OBS software and hit the ‘start streaming’ button. This connects my OBS feed with my YouTube link and voila, I’m streaming, just like this. (Beware, it’s boring, it’s just a short sample of my latest stream where it’s taking me forever to mix a blue).
Questions
Revealing the real process of making art is something I truly believe in. In a world where our ‘social media’ has turned it all into a performance, people really don’t understand the mess, chaos and, most importantly, time it takes to make things (yep, that’s 3-minutes of me mixing a colour and I’m not even done yet).
I’m always happy to help enable illustrators amp up their digital presence. If anyone reading this has any questions or needs help, we can always set up a Skype/Zoom chat and I can talk you through some solutions. Just reach out via Twitter or Email.
In 1956, Jorn Utzon entered a design competition to design an Opera House for Sydney, Australia. His entry, one of over 200, contained schematic designs that explained the concept for the building, but no engineering guidance for how it should (or could) be built. Had he stopped to consider what was possible and constrain himself to what had come before, it’s unlikely his submission would’ve pushed the boundaries in the way that it did.
Standing out from the crowd or doing something different is always risky. There are norms in every culture and industry – things people just expect. In the mid-1950s, architecture was characterised by modernist values; function over form, glass boxes. Minimal ornamentation and decoration were all ‘normal’. Many of the other Sydney Opera House entries were ‘normal’.
But the thing about normal is that it changes. No one knows how and when it will happen, but inevitably, it does. At the time of the Sydney Opera House Competition, it was the four judges who decided it was time for a change when they awarded Utzon the first prize. Because of that, the Opera House stands as an iconic ‘masterpiece’, a one-of-a-kind.
If artists start with what is ‘normal’ rather than what isn’t, we’ll likely do OK. The architects who won second and third prize for the Sydney Opera House were successful firms both before and after the competition. But going beyond normal, living in the space where the risk lies, sharing a vision of something before we know whether it’s even possible, it’s only then when we’re even in with a chance to be the one that creates the new normal, the next one-of-a-kind.
If you won the Caldecott Medal, does that mean your work is good? How about the CBCA Book of the Year? Or, forgetting awards for a minute, how about just being published? Is your work good because a publisher published it? What if it’s published and it doesn’t sell? Still good? What if it only sells like crazy once you’re dead?
Making art for prestige is probably a bad idea. Recognition, which is required for prestige, is something you can’t control. Despite what the guidelines say, there are no actual criteria for recognition. For example, The Caldecott Medal, probably one of the most prestigious awards in the field of picture book illustration, has this as one of their criteria:
“Each book is to be considered as a picture book. The committee is to make its decision primarily on the illustration, but other components of a book are to be considered especially when they make a book less effective as a children’s picture book. Such other components might include the written text, the overall design of the book, etc.”
Yes, that’s right, the no. 1 award for illustration is influenced by the written text and overall design of the book, which, often, is under the control of the publisher, not the illustrator. And I haven’t even mentioned the “Etc” bit which is really a 3-letter way of saying, “Oh, you know, some other stuff.”
And so if awards are, generally, bogus and out of our control, how do we ever know if our work is any good? Well, that’s probably the wrong question. The right one seems to be “How did it feel when I was making it? Or, does this feel important to me? Did it answer the question I was asking of myself?” Those are the feelings you can control. If you have self-sustaining answers to those sorts of questions, it doesn’t matter whether a publisher says yes, or the judging panel all agree that yours is number one. You know you’re making important work. Work that matters to you.
When I was a child, my dad took me to the golf course, gave me a sawn-off golf club, put a ball down and said, ‘give it a go.’
I took swing after swing, either missing the ball completely or slamming the club into the grass surrounding the ball. I was probably there for 20 mins, swinging like a maniac. But then I hit the ball, once. I hit it SO cleanly and crisply that I thought I missed it. It wasn’t until I saw this tiny little ball fly like a dart through the air that I realised what I’d done. It felt SO good.
So, I tried again. And sure enough, 20 mins of frantic swinging and missing went by again before ‘bang’, I did it again. Not as good as the first time, but still pretty good.
I had never been on a golf course before, never swung a golf club, but 40 mins after trying it for the first time, I became interested. I was driven to reproduce that feeling of hitting it cleanly, and so I didn’t stop trying.
I spent every afternoon after school practising at the golf course. Over time, I hit the ball more often. Then, I focussed on hitting it better. The more I tried and failed, the more interested I became in mastering it, the more I uncovered the game’s depth and complexity. I discovered that it was as much a mental game against oneself, as a physical one against others.
At 11 years old, I didn’t know that golf could be a passion. If the advice my dad had given me was “follow your passion”, I never would have found golf.
I can’t help but think that the romantic notion of ‘passion’ that underpins our current cultural narrative, “we’re all meant to do one thing on this earth, we just need to find it” is entirely and utterly false. In my case, I arrived at passion through persistence. And I’m not the only one.
Humans like the idea of ‘searching’ for ‘that one thing’ but we are probably more malleable than we realise. Each of us are multi-dimensional, complex organisms; it doesn’t make any logical sense to have ‘one thing’ that we’re good at or interested in. So what’s the solution?
In my experience, I needed a few things to get truly and deeply interested in golf:
Opportunity. Had Dad not taken me to the golf course, I never would’ve got there myself. I needed something external to prompt me. Dad had liked golf, so he thought he’d share that with me. Now, with the internet, there are hundreds of meetups in communities around the world that it would be SO easy to find a group (or a person) who might be able to share their interest with me to see if I like it.
A rapid feedback loop (and some level of success) for your first try. Like me, it took 40 mins of aimless effort before I saw that ball fly into the distance and get that feeling that maybe this is something I could do. Some activities, like writing a novel, take years. It’s probably not the best place to start. But, if writing is something you might want to try, perhaps a short story or even a flash fiction is a good way to start? You can write one of those in a day and get feedback quickly.
Persistence. Once you discover a glimmer of interest or a feeling you like, you only make progress by persisting. If you wrote one flash fiction that showed you that you could do it, write another, and another. Some will be as good as the first, some even better, but there’ll also be a lot of crap. Perhaps doing this will lead you to discover some books, advice, or a course that can help you get better, to weed out the crap ones and slowly improve over time.
Deciding whether to continue pursuing an interest (at the expense of pursuing a new interest) is a very difficult thing. In my case, I almost became a pro at golf but, for various reasons, I slowly decided on other priorities, and now I no longer play. Instead, I spend time writing and illustrating stories—another ‘passion’ I’ve found along the way. The learning curve of writing and illustrating stories professionally, even adopting an art practice, is steep and infinitely deep. Right now, I’m happy there, but who knows what will come. After all, cello is always something I’ve wanted to try, too.
What does it mean to go pro? To deliver every day, no matter what. There’s so much ‘advice’ from professional writers about what it means to write. Commit, they say. Every day they say. No matter what, they say.
But what most professional writers fail to account for is that they’re pros. And pros have to deliver. If you’re not a pro and don’t aspire to be, then ‘every day’ doesn’t matter. No matter what doesn’t matter. Committing doesn’t matter. If the act of writing or drawing brings you joy, if you find happiness in being in a state of occasional flow, if it’s a hobby and not a profession, then doing it whenever you want is totally fine.
Everyone will tell you to grow your audience. Focus on subscribers. Get bigger. Increase market share. Be for everybody. Be liked. Be loved.
But nothing gives me more pleasure these days than when I notice someone unsubscribe from my email list. Why? Because it means I’m not for everyone. It means I’m forming a point of view. A strong opinion. I’m picking a side. A side that’s not for everyone. It’s exactly what art is supposed to do.
It’s funny, no one ever asks me how I find the time to brush my teeth or put pants on before I leave the house every day. The question I always get is, how do you find the time to write?
Creating stuff (in my case, writing stories or drawing pictures) seems to be an ‘optional’ activity in the way we think about the world. It has to come after all the boring stuff. Work, commuting, cooking dinner, cleaning the house, bingeing Netflix, catching up on social media. After all, art (and self-expression) is a luxury, isn’t it? And I will admit, that there’s privilege baked into my life, but the people who are asking me about how I find the time to write aren’t the underprivileged, or historically-discriminated groups. That’s a whole different problem.
When the commitment to write or draw becomes a non-negotiable automatic activity, like brushing teeth or wearing pants when I’m in public, it’s no longer about finding time to write, because it’s already there.
Practice doesn’t make perfect; it makes better. Aiming for ‘perfect’ is a problem because every time we practice, we learn. Every time we learn, we improve. Perfect implies an end — a finish line. But when you’re playing an infinite game, the finish line keeps moving forward; your expectations are always a little bit ahead of your skills. It’s not until we realise that perfect is unavailable that we begin to see the real value of Practice.
It’s easy to put limits on ourselves. To see these things as barriers that prevent us from doing what we want to do. My desk is too small. I don’t have enough time. I don’t have a ‘space’. I can’t afford to do art. I can’t draw. But barriers are only barriers if you see them that way.
Of all the mediums, why did I start with watercolour? (Apparently, the most difficult, according to oil painters).
Well, because my desk is too small (for acrylics). I don’t have the luxury of time (that oils demand). I don’t have the ‘space’ (to store artwork that takes too long to dry). I didn’t have a lot of money (to afford canvases, brushes, mediums, etc.).
Watercolour, for me, is the ultimate medium. It dries fast. It doesn’t stain my furniture (much). It only needs a piece of paper, which is lightweight and can be as big or small as your circumstances require. It’s cheap to get started. It’s portable, too.
Barriers are only barriers because we imagine them to be. If we try to use our constraints and see them as shaping us, rather than limiting us, maybe we’ll discover something that fits in with life, but still feeds our soul.
