Some days I’m too tired to write or draw. Some days I’ve got other things I need to do or would rather be doing. Some days, I just don’t feel like it. But that’s also true of when I show up to my day job except, I always do, and I get the work done, whether I feel like it or not. Maybe it’s the same with my art-making?

I’ve had certain ideas burning a hole in my brain for a while. I think they’re good ideas, but I’m not sure so I haven’t spent the energy on drawing them. They are ‘great ideas… in theory’.

Truth is, I’m afraid that when I start them, I’ll discover that I’m not up to the task: I don’t have the skills yet to realise them as well as I can imagine them. So, in some ways, it’s safer not to try. If I don’t try they can remain great ideas… in theory.

But ideas that aren’t made can’t be shared and ideas that can’t be shared don’t help anyone. They can’t inform or entertain an audience and without that, I don’t learn if that great idea in theory is also a great idea in reality.

If I try to realise a great idea and learn that I’m not skilled enough to translate that idea into reality, I will have learned something. But, if it turns out I am able to take that idea and make it well, I will have also learned something. By learning anything I will have more information to decide on what’s next; either develop the skills I don’t have so that I can make turn the idea into reality, or build on the success of the original work and make something even more ambitious next.

By taking the ‘risk’ of starting, exploring, and finishing, I’m better able to understand which great ideas (in theory) will make better ones in reality. Over time, that’s likely to lead to better & more interesting work that’s more likely to inform or entertain an audience. I like those chances.

A chair is for sitting, obviously. But then, what’s sitting for? Why sit at all? In fact, why me?

Sometimes, understanding ourselves – what we do and why we do it in the way that we do it – isn’t easy. The world is full of self-help books that promise to help a person discover their “why” or “purpose”. But this is where an older writer may be of use.

Aristotle’s four causes* may be a neat way to investigate any ‘why’ type of question. It may not be perfect, but it also may not need to be. For any ‘thing’ that exists (like a chair), Aristotle implores ask to us a few questions.

1. What is it? Aristotle describes this as his ‘formal’ cause. In our case, well, we’ve already described it. A chair.
2. What is it made of? Aristotle calls this his ‘material’ cause. If the chair I’m thinking about is a wooden chair, then it’s material cause is a tree..
3. How did it go from wood to a chair? This is Aristotle’s ‘formal cause’. Or, ‘how did this chair form’. In the chair’s case, it required skills and labour of a furniture maker to transform a pile of wood into this chair..
4. What is its good? Or, it’s ‘final cause’. In other words, why does this chair exist? Which brings us back to the original answer – for sitting, right? But then, what’s sitting for?.

The idea of following this thread of understanding the world better is that it’s a guide for helping us make more intentional and thoughtful decisions. In my case, I did just buy a new chair, and it was expensive, so shouldn’t I know what sitting is for?

Sitting, for me, is necessary to remain comfortable, to rest, and prevent injury. And why is this important? So that I can spend as much time making books and writing stories that inform or entertain people? Why? Because I believe that stories are the perfect vehicle to move hearts and minds towards things that I think are important in a community – kindness, compassion, generosity and patience. And, as I write those words, I may have stumbled across something that sounds like a purpose. An answer to the question, “why me?”

*It’s worth noting that the definition of ‘cause’ in Aristotle’s time is a little different to how we think about it today. Cause in Aristotle’s time was less about ‘causation’ and more about an ‘explanation’… a ‘why’.

Many years ago, I described a series of unlikely coincidences to a First Nations artist I was having a drink with. It was mostly about how my art practice, over a period of 10 years, provided me with opportunities outside of art but, remarkably, aligned with my core values. After I finished telling her the story, she replied with some simple words: “Matt, they aren’t coincidences. The ancestors are speaking.”

As someone who deeply values scientific inquiry and knowledge, I’ve always interpreted events that lack any obvious causal connection as the chaotic nature of the universe. That if I just keep making work and the world keeps turning, atoms will continue to crash into each other in interesting ways and create chain reactions of other events, which will lead to others, and so on. Occassionally, those chain reactions will provide me with an experience; both good ones and bad ones.

In many ways, it’s a comfortable way to live – I can do what I do, and we’ll just see what happens. Take it as it comes. Roll with the punches. But, this approach to life is also (largely) a passive one.

What my friend touched on from a First Nations viewpoint is what Carl Jung would call “synchronicity.” The idea that events can appear meaningfully related to one another even if they lack a discoverable causal connection.

Science can’t prove or disprove synchronicity because it’s not observable using scientific methods of 3rd party inquiry. You either believe in synchronicity or you don’t.

The longer I practice art, the more I see the chain reaction of events that stem from doing the work. The louder the voice of the ancestors become. My growing acknowledgement of synchronicity has got me out of my comfort zone and has caused me to take action in ways that a belief in chaos has not. The more I’m listening to the ancestors, the more I feel guided by them and, in turn, the clearer the path seems.

In the end, if I can tell myself a more meaningful story because of a belief in synchronicity which in turn provokes more positive action than a belief in chaos, then perhaps that’s all that matters, whether science agrees or not.

Most of the time, the question “Can I do this?” denotes the start of any project. Last night it was, “Can I design 50 monsters?” But it can be anything… Can I draw something from an unusual or extreme angle or point of view? Can I make a sausage look cute? Can I give buttered toast a personality?

Most of the time, once I begin the mark-marking process to try to answer this original question, new questions emerge because of the mark marking that’s happening in front me. New questions replace the original one.

This process doesn’t make the original question less important or one I won’t answer in the end anyway. In fact, it’s quite contrary because it’s the question that got me started, which is the most important part of the process.

When visibility goes well (when something you make gets a positive reaction like a laugh, some critical-acclaim, an award), confidence skyrockets. Someone else’s belief in you, especially when that person is a stranger or ‘industry professional’ with no vested interest in your wellbeing, provides confidence like nothing else.

But, when visibility doesn’t go well (a bad review, negative reaction, being overlooked or going unnoticed for awards), confidence can drop like a hammer falling from the sky.

The skill to learn (and yes, it is a skill) is to learn to have faith in yourself; a recognition that your work has value to you and you alone first. Maybe your work helps you to understand yourself better, it may help you process some emotions, it may entertain you, it may teach you something and help you improve your craft. Perhaps if we focus on these things, then by the time anyone notices the work we’ve made (good or bad), we’ve already won.

I’d like to believe I don’t need to be noticed; that I could make stuff just for me and be content with it existing in the world. But, when it boils down to it, I feel compelled to share.

I’ve finally exited Instagram. It feels empowering to have done so despite the platforms contribution to my picture book career (especially in the early days). But, now I find myself making stuff and still looking for places to make it public without relying on an enormous data-harvesting tech company as facilitator.

When I was younger, my website was the place to share stuff. It was clear no one read it or ever interacted (although when someone did get in touch it felt like winning a lottery). But, back then, it was enough just to share. I never saw likes, comments, or shares, and I didn’t need them. It was just… me and my stuff?

So, I’ve come full circle. It’s enough to post them to my website (that no one visits), but I can see it. I know it’s public – a message in a bottle floating in a global ocean of noise and distraction.

Will my drawings change or save a life? No. But maybe they’ll inform or entertain a digital beachcomber one day when the bottle washes up on their distant shore. Perhaps it will inspire that person to pick up a pencil and try it themselves. The chances of that happening are slim, but they’re better than if I keep my drawings in a storage locker until I’m dead.

I know I’m looking for ‘immortality’ in my art; a way to be remembered. It’s not about awards or pats on the back. I’m just looking to be helpful, perhaps, or occasionally find connection. To reinforce to myself (and others) that we are not alone. My work is proof to myself and to others that, indeed, I (and we) exist.

As someone who does most of the cooking in the house, I’ve come to recognise two types of cooking. There are some meals that contain something beyond its ingredients. The vegetables are chopped more evenly, the sauce mixed with more precision, the meat seasoned more uniformly, the salad dressing more balanced. This is different to cooking ‘fancy’ (it could be a boiled egg boiled just right) but some meals just get more attention and, as a result, the meal is nicer.

Then there are some meals which, for whatever reason (I’m distracted, tired, just don’t feel like it) are just ingredients on a plate: uncohesive. It might look like a stirfry, or a roast dinner, or a spaghetti bolognese, but it’s lacking that attention (my mother-in-law calls it love) in it’s preparation.

I suspect most home cooks know this feeling and perhaps professionals do to. I suspect it’s a familiar feeling with anyone who makes anything with their hands; something the things we make have something beyond their raw materials in them; a piece of us, our care, effort, and attention. Or love.

In our culture of incremental optimisation it’s tempting to try and ‘hack’ our brains to have more careful days than careless ones, or see more careless days as some sort of failing. But making anything at all should be celebrated. At the end of the day, the food still needs to get on the table and so does our art; there will be good days and bad ones, but that’s all part of the process.

Not many people see the paintings on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and say, “that looks easy.” No one looks at fine byzantine filigree jewellery and thinks, “I could’ve done that.” It’s unlikely someone would look at the Duomo in Milan and think it mustn’t have taken very long to build.

When we witness any artefact made by a human: a painting, a sculpture, jewellery, or architecture to name a few, we seem to be able to intuit effort; to recognise something that took a long time to do or that looked difficult to do; and this recognition is not always a conscious one.

Complexity, intricacy, grandeur, scale all have baked within it a sense of effort of time or expertise.

Simplicity, however, has within it a paradox because it doesn’t have the ‘usual’ cues of effort but instead, often works even more subconciously on the observer and is underpinned by deep understanding of the materials and purpose of the craft. We use words like skill, mastery, technique and craftsmanship in response to something that doesn’t seem complex, intricate, or grand.

Byzantine filigree and a minimalist Japanese chef’s knife couldn’t be more visually different from one another, yet both could be described as beautiful for the human effort that is embodied in their existence.

A Bonnard painting appears effortful. A Bill Watterson cartoon does to, but in a different way. Both are imbued with an intense craftmanship of their respective domains and both would be considered masterpieces in their respective field despite one being complex and layered in colour and tone, and the other being a black and white cartoon drawing.

Most of the time, at some sub-conscious level, humans see and feel the effort expended in a work and, equally, when something did not (like a discount department knock-off of a Bonnard painting), whether we’re aware of it or not.

According to classical-music.com, but also many other ‘greatest symphonies of all time lists”, Brahms’ first symphony is a good one. One of the best, in fact. No matter which “greatest symphony’s of all time” list one looks at though, one thing appears true: that, most of the time, any composer’s first attempt at writing a Symphony isn’t considered one of their best, or best of all time. There are plenty of 4ths, 9ths, 5ths, 6th and so on (Mozart 41st is a cracking one, apparently).

If this is true for symphonies, it’s also probably true for the drawings we make, the paintings we paint, and the stories we tell.

Sure, like Brahms, occassionally we’ll knock out a banger for our first try (although, by the sounds of things, it took him 20 years to write). But the probability lies in everything we make after the first. So, we have no choice but to keep making.