I had a recent experience of posting something to Instagram that I thought was really great – humourous, empathetic, and important; the stuff I’m really proud to share. It’s been an idea sitting in an old sketchbook for years and I think I’d just been too afraid to execute it for fear of not being able to produce what I could see in my mind. Anyway, when I did and put it out in the world, I was really disappointed with the response.

In terms of ‘likes’, it performed poorly compared to other stuff I’ve posted, recently. Was it the wrong day? The wrong time of day? Was it Instagram’s algorithm? A lack of hashtags? I went into ‘analysis overdrive’ trying to work out what to do differently next time.

Then, almost 24 hours later, one of my picture book heroes, Bruce Whatley, came across it and we had one of the most meaningful exchanges I’ve had on Instagram in a really long time. Not only that, but it inspired him to go dig up an old book and share it with his audience, which resulted in even more nostalgia and conversation. No marketing guide ever asks us to measure that.

See, when I first posted the image, I was focused on the wrong thing – numbers. How many likes and how much visibility will this work receive? But, it was decidedly the wrong metric/s.

Whenever we think of ‘marketing’ we think about it in the way that social media companies have trained us to think about it – impressions, likes, clicks, conversions. We focus on the numbers. That may be meaningful for them and their business model, but that’s not the only way. There is another lens through which to judge success, a lens trained on relationships, meaningful conversation, and connections amongst one another that run far deeper than surface-level numbers.

It feels ‘riskier’ to focus on qualitative, not quantitative metrics, but if the work is good enough, it’ll cut through anyway. I don’t know about anyone else, but good qualitative metrics to leave a deeper and more lasting impression than the fleeting quantitative ones.

I used to think that my ‘style’ was defined by the materials I use. I found watercolour early and have loved it ever since. I used a small amount of pencil to sketch in line work, came up with characters that had ‘floating eyes’ and voila – that’s my style. I was, at some points, nervous about drifting from these materials for fear of losing ‘my style.’

But now, I realise that style is more than materials. Style is more akin to a ‘gaze’. A way that one looks at the world; a lens through which we consume, interpret, and then, create.

Some artists’ gaze are graphic – they see line, colour, shape vividly. They interpret this world in bright contrasts and simple forms. There is often little narrative in their work. I love this sort of work but I cannot mimic it for very long.

Other artists’ gaze are serious and brooding – even if the medium they use is not, there’s a darkness to their voice that comes through their work; a scepticism, negativity, critique. Again, I love this work, but I also find I cannot gaze upon the world like this for very long.

So, what is my gaze?

Well, there is humour, I know that for sure. It comes so naturally to me that I have to be reminded of how little humour I see in some artists’ work to know that it’s something unique. I also know now that I gaze upon the world with a veil of optimism and hope. It is, perhaps, the reason why I’ve collaborated on a number of books where the main character is a ‘grump’ but goes on the journey to be less so. Perhaps it’s better described as silliness?

I certainly interpret the world as a series of connected stories and see strong connections where others do not. This enables character to drive most of what I do. I’m still often surprised when I hear that book illustrators find that bit difficult because, to me, it’s the whole point of telling a story.

But, again, we all have slightly different gazes and there seems to be a place in the world for them all.

The freeing thing about disconnecting style from medium is that it gives me room to explore ways to express the gaze. How does my gaze come through acrylic, or coloured pencil? I’ve done some ink and watercolour recently in Herman Crab and Rosie the Rhinoceros, and I can see my gaze in them, despite the bold ink lines that weren’t there a few years. The question now is how might using different mediums alter my gaze because, surely, as one moves through life, there’s a chance that things shift?

In art marketing, we’re taught that consistency is king. “Develop your style”, “Curate your Instagram”, “People should take one look at your homepage and know exactly what you do.” But people are more complicated than that, and artists’ work even more so. So, whilst I understand where art marketers are coming from – viewing the work as something to be purchased by a consumer – I can’t help but think the value of art isn’t how much or how quickly you can sell a painting but rather a way to find out who we were, are now, and who we might become.

How much money does one ask for in exchange for a painting? $50? $100? $5000? And then I realised I’ve been asking the wrong question.

By the time my art is ready to sell, I’ve already won. The process of working through the art – discovering an answer to a question that kicked off the need to create the piece in the first place – is the reward. The final piece is kind of a secondary benefit. The question isn’t what is worth, the question is what did I learn?

So, why does the sale price of the piece still feel me with anxiety? Is it because if I price it too high, I’ll look arrogant? If I price it too low, I’ll be percieved as undervaluing it? Especially when we start to ‘compare the market’, or in other words, understand what people are paying for ‘similar pieces’.

But what’s similar about 2 different pieces of art from two different artists? The materials? The size? The complexity of the work or the time it took to complete? Even if these were exactly the same in material terms, should they cost the same? How does one value sentimentality or the meaning of the process to the individual artist? How does one value the ‘reputation’ of the artist? Some things don’t map easily to money – art is one of them – but we do it anyway.

Like most human/object relationships, the value of any one piece of art is fundamentally an individual choice. There is no set ‘commodity’ price for art, only averages. We attempt to map mental models of consumer goods around them – oil painting ‘last longer’ therefore are generall worth more – but it’s still all just theatre.

In the end, every artist will have their reasons for pricing their art a particular way, and every buyer will have their reasons for buying it. As long as those are clear, then any time art is made or sold, for whatever price, it’s worth it.

I’ve been struggling to return to mindless doodling and writing; that space of pure invention; to use the physical act of mark-making to explore what I’m thinking and feeling.

I haven’t quite worked out what it is, but I think ‘publishing’, as a goal, has begun to dominate my thinking. Who will buy it? Who will be interested? What market is this for? These questions are creating barriers – second-guessing, fear of losing touch, a lack of confidence.

Over the years, I’ve known many emerging and unpublished authors describe the same questions and feelings. They all boil down to the same ultimate question, “What’s the point of making art?” And, even though I answered this for myself almost 4 years ago, it’s still difficult to prioritise it when the rest of the world is competing for my attention in so many different ways.

I used to think that self-confidence and motivation were beginner’s problems. But, as it turns out, no matter how many books are published, or awards won, this question still emerges in any artist’s mind at different stages in their career. Well, it’s been my experience, anyway.

And now that I know this is true, I have a couple of options.

I can persist with trying to answer the unsolvable questions – who will buy it, who will be interested, what market is this for – before I put pen to paper. This probably means that days, weeks, or months go by without anything physical to show for all the thinking and worrying that’s been going on.

The other option is just to put pen to paper and then worry about the rest later. By visualising something (or, anything), it’s at least a way of recording all the failures along the way. As any good scientist knows, even a negative result is still a positive one.

Visual art is complex. We make hundreds of tiny decisions to produce a single piece. What should I draw? How should I draw it? What materials do I use? How big should it be? What orientation is best? Do I use line? Form? Colour? What’s the composition? The list goes on. It can often be highly stressful and overwhelming sometimes, so much so that we simply don’t do anything – paralyzed by the fear of making a bad choice within that myriad of options. Of course, the opposite is also true, when I get over those first hurdles and answer a few of those questions, making art is one of the most relaxing and enjoyable ways to spend my time.

I’ve just returned from holidays – a week in the Daintree Rainforest. And, whilst I draw ‘for work’ I also like to ‘draw to relax’. There is, however, a lot to draw in Far North Queensland. Beaches, dense rainforest, waterholes, mammals, insects, food, and people enjoying their own holiday. Deciding which materials to take raise the anxiety levels even before we’ve left. And then there’s the choices we make while we’re there.

But, I discovered something on this most recent trip that I haven’t done out in the field before – constraints. Some of my favourite sketches (and most relaxing moments) were when I was sketching with a single ink brush on cheap paper. It removed the number of decisions I needed to make about materials and colour, and reduced the risk of me ‘making a crap drawing with ‘expensive’ stuff. It was, in a single word – freeing.

And so, I’ve decided to bring this practice home. To keep things simple and not get distracted or overwhelmed by all the ways to create images. Sometimes, all you need is a pencil and some scrap paper. Armed with those, and an imagination, the possibilities are still limitless, we just get to worry less.

I’m running out of room. Room to store stuff, room to experiment with new materials, room to explore new ideas. I don’t know whether it’s because we’re working from home now? Or having spent many years in a pandemic? But things are feeling… ‘constrained’.

Yet, I say that and think – but we’ve got a 3 br house; one we never thought we could ever afford. We have a separate study/office – one that, when the day’s done, we can close the door and disconnect. We’re not working from a kitchen bench or a desk set up in the lounge room or bedroom like some of my friends.

Maybe it’s not about the physical amount of space, then; maybe it’s about how it’s being used? A fancy new monitor and electronics sit intermingled with my watercolours. I’m finding that I’m using coloured pencils joyously but am less inclined to use wet media like watercolour and ink in the same place as my shiny new 4k monitor or laptop.

Maybe, instead of more room, what I need is a new routine? To rethink the space I inhabit throughout the week and tweak it, cleverly, to unlock my ability to create freely again. I wonder if it’s the same for others, too.

This weekend, I spent almost 12 hours drawing; but probably not on the things I was supposed to. See, I’m supposed to be working on two books – both in their very early stages – but I never spent a single moment on them. Instead, I played. I played with ink, with watercolour, with my printer and how I might use it in my practice. There was a huge learning curve, I produced loads of work and, by the end of it, I was tired; but no one paid me for that. I was supposed to be doing the other thing. So, was this an act of procrastination or was it genuinely productive? One part of me feels like I got ‘sidetracked’, the other part of me felt like it was a huge leap forward on a bigger path.

I don’t always feel like I did over the weekend. For some reason, there was an urge to explore, play, and learn. New materials, new techniques, a new challenge. It’s not that the work I’ve got scheduled isn’t challenging or new, it’s just… it doesn’t involve the lateral thinking I could feel firing up in my brain.

What comes to mind is the Liz Fosslien illustration of consistency versus motivation. I reflect on this a lot because, well, sometimes I feel like I’m more in the motivation camp rather than the consistency one. If I was to draw last weekend’s activities, it’d look much more like the sudden burst of energy in the motivation curve, not the consistency one.

The problem, of course, is that whilst I know that last weekend’s activities didn’t directly contribute to the things I’m working on now, they’re part of a bigger story. One where I’m improving my visual communication skills. One where I’m learning about where to go next. One where I’m using my lateral and divergent thinking skills instead of my convergent ones that are often required for live book work. It genuinely felt productive, not like procrastination.

Pigeon holes, definitions, and frameworks can be useful reminders but they can also be detrimental. They can make us second guess ourselves and our intentions toward our work. The can make us feel like we’re procrastinating instead of being productive.

What seems most important is to be clear on the story we’re telling ourselves – what’s the work for, and who will benefit in what way? Once we’ve got that down, even procrastination can be productive sometimes, too.

When I’m choosing whether or not to illustrate a text, or prioritise a project, the one question that seems to rise above all is, “Why is this important?”

With a finite amount of time on Earth, having a framework to help with decision-making can be helpful. Like with anything important, most of it can’t be decided by a formula but having some guidelines or rules help the process.

Who’s on the team? Knowing the team I’ll be working with is important to me. Why? Because, above all, I prioritise spending time with lovely people. I want to know if they’ll push me creatively. I want to know if they communicate clearly and promptly. I want to know if they listen or tell. I want to know if they take risks or play it safe. All of these questions help me get a clearer picture of the people I’ll be spending the next 3 months with. I also want them to have fun and enjoy the process, too, and perhaps even form a friendship that outlasts the book. If publishers have 40 books on the go at once, I want this one to be the one that’s the most fun, and the easiest one because, in the end, that contributes a lot to making it the best one.

What’s the story about? By this, I don’t mean what’s the plot. What I care about, when I’m choosing to illustrate a text, is what the book is for. Is it helping explore a conversation between parent and child about grief? Is it trying to teach kids about their emotions and how to deal with them? Is it trying to make children feel and understand humour? Knowing what change a book is trying to make in the reader is critical to influencing my decision.

Does it answer a question I’ve also had? I’ll be frank – I have a lot of questions. I explore them in my own texts but, you know, there are so many hours in a day, and so I look to other texts to trigger those questions in me. Some, I’ll admit, are boring – they’re an easy no. But others are where art lies – addressing a question I never thought I had until I read it. When one has those moments, it’s difficult to turn them down because, now, the project is about using the process (and getting paid) to explore my own answers to those questions, and that makes it exponentially more interesting and always produces better work.

Is it worth the ecological cost? I’ve written about this before but I still think about the use of natural resources in a book and ask myself, ‘is it worth those trees? Those plastics? That glue? Those carbon emissions for distributing in Australia and across the globe?’

What might I learn from it? This is the catch-all because there’s no way to make this into a formula. Perhaps what I’ll learn comes from the answer to the first four questions? For example – maybe the editor has a style of working that I’m not familiar with. By taking on this job, I’ll learn about whether I enjoy that way, or can take something from it to add to my existing practice. It may also be that the text calls for a new art medium (like ink in Rosie) or working in a new or novel format. I learned a lot from that book. I know that I get a huge dopamine hit from steep learning curves, so I definitely bias a decision toward that.

What’s the commercial benefit? It would be remiss of me to not include this in my thinking but, to be honest, it’s fairly unimportant. It’s not that I don’t care about it, it’s just that it’s too difficult to know for sure. Advances are certain, but they don’t really paint a decent picture of the financial benefit. No one, not even the publisher, has a firm grasp on the financial return of a book (if they did, they’d have a lot more revenue and publishing would be thriving). Trying to decide to take on a project based on the possibility of scaled income isn’t useful. Some books I’ve worked on that were supposed to be commercially successful were not. And others that were just ‘cheap and cheerful’ turned out to be some the best earning books I’ve worked on.

I reflect on what I’ve just written and am reminded of the privilege I have to even think in this way – to even consider the choice of saying no. But, I believe that any artist’s work, no matter how trivial, is defined by what they say yes and no, to. And so, if an artist is their work, it would only follow that one should decide upon it deliberately.

A friend once said to me, “You’re too socially adjusted to be a real artist.” Friends say a lot of things to me, most of which I don’t remember, but for some reason, this stuck, and I’ve been asking myself that question, occasionally, ever since – Am I?

It’s the classic mythology – the starving artist squirrels away in their garret or studio, alone, for their whole lives, and they produce insightful observations that provide a lens through which that same society can look upon itself to learn something it never knew. It’s often the most insightful and important work an artist can do, and it often requires that solitude; an extraction from the day-to-day flow of things – a pause to ‘come up for air’ and get back in touch with how one truly feels when the influences of ‘mindless reaction’ are removed.

Perhaps that’s what she meant? I’m too ‘in the day-to-day flow of things’? Perhaps I value friendship and social connection more than a ‘real artist’ should? Maybe I don’t say ‘no’ enough to a night out with friends? Maybe it’s my relationships that are ‘getting in the way’ of producing the best work of my life?

But also – maybe that’s just bollocks.

The reality is, different things work for different people, and at different times. Some of us need more isolation than others. Some of us need more social interaction. Some of find inspiration in understanding key political events and the global interconnectedness of things, others prefer to ‘sit outside’ of that and observe the human condition as if from another planet.

So, am I too socially adjusted? Maybe. But when one looks at my work (and it’s fun to reflect on my own work in retrospect), it’s *because* of my love of friendship, community, & connection that stories like Eric The Postie emerge. It’s *because* I engage with the news and think deeply about things like migration, free trade, and the global displacement of the human population that stories like Queen Celine develop. It’s because I care deeply about First Nations’ rights, Social Equality and Inclusivity, that I’m even working in the unique platform that only children’s books provide.

I may not be the tortured artist that people imagine one must be to be an artist at all. But, as I’ve said before – an artist is just someone who asks questions. Whether you’re someone who prefers to work alone, or doesn’t particularly enjoy the company of others, or whether you’re the total opposite, what seems common is that we care – we care to observe whichever environment we find curious, and take some of our precious time on Earth to seek an answer for ourselves. And then, as a complete act of generosity, we share that with the world in the hope it may help someone as much as it helped us make sense of things.

I’ve got one foot in big tech and another in traditional publishing. The worlds couldn’t be more different.

Software is driven by a culture of ‘open-source’. You make something, and give it away for free. The theory is that, over time, by standing on shoulders of giants, as an industry, it will arrive at a better place than if it was all kept to ourselves. There’s an expectation, from the outset, that people will take our ideas, change them, and give us back something entirely new, something that we might then evolve even further. It assumes that ideas are infinite and malleable and will only get better with time.

Publishing talks about copyright. They talk about ‘protecting’ the rights of the author. That if someone uses the work, the creator of that work should be paid ‘fairly’ (whatever that means in legal terms). The theory is that paying people for these ideas will provide the motivation for those artists, and others, to keep producing work. This right to be paid for your ideas in this industry is fought for ferociously. It assumes that ideas of an individual are worth something significant.

In the software world, there’s little to no curation. There are millions of projects of variable quality across the internet. In software, this is a good thing. The crowd decides what lives, and what dies. Beneficial code and ideas tend to spread, bad ones don’t.

In publishing, it’s highly curated. Publishers have a finite number of book slots to fill every year. Projects are picked on the merit of the idea when measured against what will sell, and what’s come before. That selection is made by people in a particular class of society. Publishing produces less ideas, but they are believed to be higher quality. However, those ideas come at a cost – people need to be readers and books cost money and not everyone has access to a library.

To be perfectly honest, both have pros and cons but, right now, I can’t help but believe that open-source is, in fact, aligned with a greater good. There is an inherent bias in publishing, on a number of levels. This is no one’s individual fault but the result of systemic and structural inequality – the same inequality that governs all aspect of our culture. I know that publishers are working SO hard to change their practices, to try to dismantle the inherent biases that have formed their own cultures over the years but that’s going to take time. What do we do in the meantime? Protect our ideas so that only the wealthy have access? There’s got to be a better way – maybe that’s open-source?

I genuinely believe that people will pay to consume stories, and the arts, if they can. When I see my books and works pirated, it brings me a little joy, not despair, because the biggest threat to the arts isn’t piracy, it’s obscurity. I’m also privileged in many ways, the biggest is that I don’t rely on my artistic work for income. That’s a game changer. But, the ASA reports that the average annual income for authors from their books is around $11,000 AUD, so, with that in mind, it seems that most authors aren’t relying on their artistic work for income, either? Is that because of an inherent undervaluing of the work artist’s produce? Or something else? Stamping down on pirating, or trawling the internet for breaches of copyright won’t bring that annual income number up to a living wage. The time and energy spent doing that may be better spent creating the next work.

I don’t know about other authors, but I don’t work in the arts for income. Others I know say a similar thing, or, at the very least, it’s not the primary driver. If money was important to us we’d all join the finance sector. Self-expression is important (but that changes when a publisher gets involved anyway), so the real reason I work in the arts is to change culture.

Right now, publishers bring curation, distribution, and a second perspective that generally leads to higher-quality work (but may also risk biasing away from audiences who don’t have the education or means to engage with a ‘higher-quality’ work). Automation will destroy their competitive advantage of distribution (and the economy of scale printing costs they benefit from in large-scale print runs) over time. That leaves ‘curation’ and ‘quality’ as their only advantage. But who are the gatekeepers? And who should be? Should literature be controlled by the educated few? Or should authors and illustrators aim to get their work in as many hands as possible to create a more diverse literature landscape that is a truer representation of the world as it is? Even if it means ceding a few dollars to get the work in the hands of people who can’t afford it.

I don’t have answers to these questions, and I’m very aware I’m coming from a privileged position here. Media companies are eating each other as a solution to ‘staying alive’ so we’re slowly moving toward a less diverse media landscape, anyway. Publishers are leaning more and more on celebrities as a way to ‘keep up’ with how to reach buyers in a noisy and uncontrollable attention-landscape unleashed (and controlled) by the internet and social media services. Publish a celebrity and you buy their audience. They’re doing their best to ‘protect’ ideas, but the internet is a force that even media companies can’t comfortably reckon with or predict. It’s changing too fast, too organically, and with not enough transparency.

Meanwhile, software is eating the world. There has never been a better time in history for an artist to reach the widest audience possible. We are no longer sitting in a provincial market square in France that sees 17 walkers-by a day. In a button click, we have access to millions of people. To limit access to an idea that may change a life seems short-sighted and unintuitive to me.

What we really need is more people engaging with the work. I know, as do many privileged people, that the arts and stories change lives. You only know that feeling from being privileged enough to have had the experience. Stories lead to a kinder and more empathetic world. They lead to better educated people and better education solves a lot of the world’s problems. Maybe what we need to do is let go, to stop squeezing our manuscripts and our illustrations tighter and tighter for fear of not being paid or acknowledged. Maybe we need to keep making the work that we know does good and have faith that it’ll find a place in the world – whether that place can afford it or not.