It’s weird to think I’ve been working in watercolour for almost 8 years now. I’ve learned about, and now love, so much about the medium – it’s ‘happy accidents’, its luminosity, the way that I find the less I seem to fuss over it, the happier I am with the result.

But, watercolour does have its limits.

Doing light over dark isn’t easy (it’s kind of not what it was designed for, although there are still some beautiful examples of artists pushing this to its limits). Strong, vibrant colours are, again, not its strong suit. You can make it work but watercolour loves light transparent colour.

And so, the artist is faced with a challenge. Do I continue to explore the depth of watercolour? Invent new or perhaps interesting techniques to produce the images I can see in my head in this somewhat misunderstood medium? Or, maybe it’s time to try something different.

Digital has always struggled to find a place in my practice. I spent a lot of time on computers during the day so spending more time on computers for ‘art’ purposes was not very attractive. But, time changes things, and things might be different now.

Like an astronaut exploring the far reaches of the universe, the art medium landscape isn’t constrained but is infinite. And so, in this short life, perhaps I owe it to myself to explore a few strange and different planets for a while. At the very least, I’ll learn something – either enjoy something of a new medium or return whimpering to my safe place of watercolour. The thing is, if I never go, I’ll never know and so, in the end, I probably only have one choice – to approach it with curiosity and an open mind, as I’ve always done with this art journey, and see what comes out the other side.

Making art is full of barriers. Amongst other things, art requires time, patience, space, focus, an acceptance of vulnerability and a generosity of the self. Our hyper-capital world is already being incrementally optimised away from the conditions of making thoughtful art and the last thing any of us need is the additional cultural barrier that we (in Australia and New Zealand in particular) call “Tall Poppy Syndrome.”

To financially support my art practice, I’ve worked as a software designer servicing many different cultures across Europe, the UK and the USA. And, even though I’ve been doing that work for almost 20 years, I’m still almost always surprised at the differences in attitudes towards celebrating successes of others in these different countries.

Australians are, generally, a self-effacing people; humility is one of the core tenants of ‘being a good bloke’, as they say. Talking about your success ‘too much’, or expressing confidence and belief in yourself is more likely to get you labelled as ‘a wanker’ than have you and your friends celebrating success together. Generally, that’s not been my experience in other parts of the world.

In the US, for example, telling people you are number one is important, and it matters. Sure, not everyone may agree, but it’s less likely they’ll ‘cut you down’ for it. And that constant cultural threat of being cut-down in Australia makes art-making, and more importantly, sharing, much more difficult because, after all, ‘no one likes a tall poppy’ here.

Achieving income through art is difficult at the best of times; yes, skill and technique are important, and so too are ‘connections’ and ‘networks’, but there’s no denying that luck is also a part of it. One can increase their chances of a ‘lucky break’ by doing two things: making the work, and telling people about it. In Australia, I feel like some of us are behind the 8-ball because telling people about the great work we’re doing as artists is where it gets difficult for fear of being a tall poppy.

No one likes a show off

The idea of ‘marketing’ one’s work, as an Australian, is fraught with the tall-poppy effect. In order to give your work the best chance of success you really do need to try to tell as many people as you can, “Here, I made this, I hope you like it.” The more you tell people, the more likely your art will find a place in the world. But Australians tend to shy away from ‘over-sharing’ for fear of seeming over-confident or worse – the mortal sin in Australian culture: lacking humility.

The thing is, it is possible to show humility and tell people about one’s work. The catch-22 is that the more people that hear about one’s work, the more likely you are to run into those who feel that, maybe, you need to be taken down a notch or two.

Sharing art is one of the scariest things an artist can do. It’s a step toward vulnerability. The critical eye for whether it’s ‘good art’ is difficult enough to overcome. The Tall-Poppy Syndrome adds another wall that, yes, is important to acknowledge, but shouldn’t stop us from remembering that in other parts of the world, sharing the gift is celebrated.

I have a love/hate relationship with social media these days. On one hand, there is obvious value in sharing my work on social media. It reminds people I exist. And, if people know you exist, the theory goes, they’re more likely to engage with your work (either in a paying or non-paying capacity). On the other hand, I find it endlessly tedious because, well, as a small individual, the algorithm isn’t in my favour. Unless I do what Instagram wants me to do, of course, and that’s helping them get other folks’ eye balls on the ads that companies who aren’t me pay for and benefit from.

And so, there’s this chicken and egg game that’s emerged. What Instagram wants changes over time as they incrementally optimize the ways they increase our visits, clicks, engagement and attention on the platform. Instagram (and every other social media platform) need the artists and creators of the world to create and share beautiful content. It used to be images but now video, ever more data-rich than a single image, is turning out to be even more addictive and engaging for the general population.

But the trade off here doesn’t seem fair. In fact, it seems like the classic and very old-school bargaining deal that I and many others in the design industry rejected early on in our career – Let us use your art to make us money and, in return, we’ll give you exposure.

But, as the algorithm optimizes incrementally and infinitely, that trade-off is weighing more and more in the platform’s favour, not the artist’s. The commercial benefits for the platform are clear, tracked, and measurable. The artists’ benefits are not. Instead, there’s a blind faith and a ‘fear of missing out’ that’s driving our ability and need to post more often, at particular times, in different ways. The value proposition for using social platforms for ‘marketing’ seems so diminished that I’m sitting in the ‘why bother’ camp now. The power and benefits balance is, well, unbalanced.

I’ve noted before that Roald Dahl doesn’t have an Instagram account but, through is incredible work (produced in a time before social media), still has a very strong presence. Things are different now, sure. But, if the time I dedicate to “marketing via social media” is, instead, channelled into thinking more deeply about the work itself, I have a hunch that I’ll be better off in the long run – both in my pursuit to find a truth in my art, but also commercially.

I won’t lie – I love art supplies. There’s nothing more fun or inspiring for me than to visit my local art store and peruse possibilities. Because, you know, that’s what art stores really sell – possibility. Sure, they call these things crayons, markers, brushes, paint, paper etc, but what’s really there is a chance; to fall in love with a new medium or material you’ve never used before – maybe it will ‘the one’ – the one that truly unlocks you as an artist.

Instagram has a culture of ‘art material porn’ and it’s incredibly seductive. People on the cutting edge of ‘what’s new’ in colour and paper technology had me hook, line and sinker. I spent a lot of money on art supplies for a while hoping that, one day, I’d find the perfect combination for the type of work I wanted to make.

And, while getting a new art material does raise the dopamine levels and sometimes creates a flurry of art activity, it very rarely leads to an identity-shifting sustainable art practice. In my experience, it’s never the art materials but the artist. If I don’t have an underlying question to explore, or a reason or feeling of wanting or needing to create art, it just doesn’t happen. In fact, what seems true is that no matter what supplies we have, or what budgets we’re constrained by, artists just make art.

It’s an expensive and time-consuming lesson to learn. It’s also one that I have to re-learn everyday. I’ve had to go cold-turkey off new art supplies – unfollow influencers, avoid art shops for long stretches of time – just like any other addict. It’s only then that I get the time and space to look inwards and find those questions I’ve got simmering below the surface. Once I find those, a simple graphite pencil and some cheap printer paper seems all I need to explore them and find the answers I’m looking for – the ones that end up being called ‘art.

I always thought that being on one’s own would be a positive thing for an art practice. Within the existential dread and uncertainty of a pandemic, I was quite intrigued by a period of time where I didn’t have to say ‘no’ to my friends when they asked me to spend time with them because I had to prioritise my art. The plan was to work, uninterrupted, for long periods of time.

I completed 3 books in 2020, back to back. I felt more productive than I had in the past. And, it wasn’t just the quantity, but the quality – Rosie the Rhinoceros is some of my proudest work to date. But, in the flurry of productivity and focus, something else gave way – the abililty to invent.

Invention needs novelty and novelty came from those ‘annoying’ social obligations I had so much difficulty and guilt turning down. It’s not like I had ‘no ideas’ (I believe creative block doesn’t exist), it’s just that the ideas were different. The ideas emerged from my internal world, not the external one. And, because of this, I found myself much less sure of their validity or relevance to others. Because of this, I had less motivation to explore them fully, or talk about them with others (even over video or phone calls).

But, at the time of writing this, I’m acclimatising to a new normal and I’m beginning, again, to see things in a new way. Now that I can go to the beach again, I’m reminded of the way small dogs and children challenge the waves. That sparks curiosity in me about concepts of hierarchy, power, and our relationship with the natural world. In transit between interstate destinations, it’s curious to notice the way humans cue for coffee or an electrical outlet – we’ve never looked more reliant on energy in all its whizzing forms.

During extended lockdowns, social media became my window into the ‘external’ world but, driven by algorithms and learned behavioural patterns about how we interact online, it too lacks the serendipity of everyday. Ironically, the digital world lacks the depth and resolution of real life, in so many ways.

When the world was open, I craved solitude. When it closed, I missed the novelty of happenstance. So now, as ‘re-entry’ sharpens it’s focus, I know that I need both. I know that it’s quite literally up to me, now a little more sensitive to the benefits of novelty and solitude, to design my time to optimise for both – to balance how much and when of each is best for the art I want to make.

Back when I started my design career, I thought everyone else was wrong and I was right. Then, after a few years in the job (and frustrated about why people weren’t seeing things my way), I realised that I was the one who didn’t know anything, and that I had a lot to learn. I was lucky to have been surrounded by supportive, giving, and experienced designers who taught me how to be a better one, and also showed me the multi-dimensional aspect of what it really meant to be a designer. Now, 15 years later, I’m the one who knows a few things about design, so my role is to teach (even though I’m still learning new things everyday).

And now, in storytelling, I’m back to being a junior. But this time is different because now I know that I don’t know, and that’s liberating. Now, instead of being frustrated about why people just aren’t doing things my way, I enter into everything with curiosity. I’m a sponge for information. I know that, from my experience as a designer, seeking out people who have gone and done it before me will help. It’ll prove to me, rather quickly, that what I think I know is wrong, and that they’ve got different (and often better) ways to approach the craft. In the end, it’s really just about being the best storyteller I can be, and I’ve got a lot to learn, the difference is, this time around, I know it.

During the week I had a quick back and forth on Instagram with the legendary Bruce Whatley. I am always deeply grateful when people with way more experience than me in anything offer a new perspective or light up a path that they’ve followed, potentially before I get there.

The thing I love about experts in their field is that they’re able to summarise such complex ideas so simply – like a master craftsman honing a piece of wood with ‘just the right’ touch so that a few simple strokes reveals a figure.

The secret seems to be to find the way you make marks that is being true to yourself – Bruce Whatley

And, although we were discussing this in art context – the physical marks on paper – it can so easily be abstracted to life. The whole point of this thing is to make marks that is being true to yourself. We spend so much time living a life that others want us to lead (or expect us to lead), that to cast that expectation aside is one of the most difficult things any artist, or human, can do. But it’s also, quite likely, the point of it all.

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.

For many years, I’ve struggled with ‘digital’ as an art medium. No matter the tools or the technology advancements, I’ve never been able to get the same connection between heart and hand from digital tools as I have physical ones. I used to think it was me. Then I thought it was the medium. But now I know what it really is – a combination of both.

One of the things I love about physical media is that they come inherently constrained. A pot of ink and a sharpened piece of bamboo goes a long way to creating lines like Quentin Blake’s. Oil paint and a palette knifed helps to create work like Richard Musgrave-Evans. A brush, water and colour are the foundations for some of my favourite artist’s work. And, of course, it’s not the materials alone that are responsible, but a combination of the constraints of those materials and the artists that wield them.

So, when it comes to digital, what are the tools? Well, the problem is that they are infinite. Millions of possible brushes, colours, canvas textures and software are at the artist’s disposal. And then there’s the hardware – wacom, cintiq, tablet, pens, mice, the list goes on. It turns out that I haven’t had a problem with digital per se – I’ve had a problem with infinite choice.

So, following this thread, I’ve experimented with a hypothesis-led approach (very scientific, I know) to try to learn something new about myself and the medium. So I frame it up:

“I believe that by constraining the options within digital I will have a better chance of producing work that pleases me. I will know this if I can create some illustrations I like within a few hours of sitting down to play. And this belief won’t be true if I still end up producing not a single thread to follow.

So, that’s what I did.

Using an iPad, Procreate, 2 brushes, and 12 colours, I set out to explore where the combination of those things and me would lead. I used my design blog articles as the foundation for exploring some concepts for editorial illustration and, well, begun to play. Here’s what happened.

Constraints are freeing, not limiting

So far, the hypothesis seems to hold true. I really like where these are going. There’s something there. They are far from perfect but I can certainly see my admiration for Leunig and Ralph Steadman in them. They are yet another reminder to me that imposing limits on one’s self (even if they are somehow just made up), provokes progress. We *think* they’ll prevent anything from happening but in fact they promote something. And, something is better than nothing, which is where I was at before when faced with digital as a medium.

If someone asks me, “Are you a hare or a tortoise?”, I answer tortoise, every time.

I’m a planner. I love working methodically, consistently, and therefore sustainably towards a goal. This gives me lots of time to do divergent thinking, and just as much for convergent thinking. I use consistent and transparent communication to make sure that anyone I’m collaborating with knows where I’m up to, what’s concerning me, any questions I have, and anything I need from them, when I need it, well before I need it. When I work in this way I can work efficiently and industrially when I need to – but still, deliver high-quality work and remain calm throughout.

I know others who work the opposite way – last minute, just-in-time, frantic. Tasks are completed the night before a deadline, or they are prioritised based on the last email that hit the inbox, or the last one they paid attention to. Some people love working this way because it can feel full of energy, fresh, ‘creative’, and full of sparks. Most workplaces operate like this, it seems, and they call themselves ‘fast-paced’.

The problem is when the tortoise and the hare try to work with one another. They can only change and adapt so much but, fundamentally, the approaches are different. If the hare cannot see the value in the tortoise’s approach, any collaboration is headed for failure.

Sprinting to the finish has and, I dare say, never will be fun for me. And so, there are only two options. The first is to continue working with hares and end up tired, frazzled, and frustrated. The second is to just find other tortoises.