There’s a growing adoration for Ken Done’s work in our household. He’s been doing some video tours of his studio over the last couple of years and, whilst they’re nothing like formal education, his rambling, generally unstructured ‘tours’ give us an interesting insight into what’s important to him and how.

Ken Done’s work speaks for itself – bright, colourful, a sense of whimsy and optimism resides in almost every one of his later pieces (especially his reef works). But amongst the various sand and silt of watching Ken Done ramble his way around the studio there is a key phrase he uses that captures his work – the feeling of the thing.

Whilst Ken Done can find and hone in on those distinguishing features of his subjects – the sails of the opera house, the iron shapes of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, the distinctive markings and colours of fish, the “twisted leg of a magpie” – he is more interested in capturing the feeling of those things rather than the things themselves. This idea allows him to abstract otherwise representational paintings into something more – it allows communication between viewer and reader at a primal, more intuitive level – one that feels so simple that it evokes responses like, “Even I could do that,” except, as it turns out, no one else ever has or does.

If there’s something I’ve learned about simplicity over my years as a designer and now visual storyteller, it’s that true simplicity only comes from deep, intimate, and extended knowledge and practice of one’s craft. Ken Done in painting. Les Murray in words. Hamaguchi in film. Miyazaki in animation. Master craftspeople learn, over time, how to strip away ‘distraction’ and find the heart of the thing or, as Ken puts it, the feeling of the thing.

Despite how simple it looks, finding the feeling of the thing seems to be one of the most difficult things an artist can do, but the rewards are immense. Once you’ve got the feeling of thing, it’s got the chance to transcend language and cultural constraints. Human feeling is, in many ways, universal. I don’t know if there would or could be anyone who gazes on a Ken Done and feels tragedy and despair, or someone who sees a Goya and feels optimism and hope. And so, as it turns out, finding the feeling of the thing not only means good art – a puzzle for and driven by the artist – but it also means good business because it makes your audience a global one.

What’s the difference between a tree, a piece of broccoli, and a piece of broccolini? Or, how do you draw a cucumber and not a zucchini? Or Venetian architecture versus Gothic?

There’s something that most people won’t agree with and it’s that I can’t really draw. And I don’t mean that in a fake self-effacing way that’s fishing for a little bit of external validation – that person to say, “No you’re not, you’re a professional illustrator.” The fact is, I’m not the sort of artist who was ‘trained classically’ or whatever that even means. I never went to Art School. I didn’t spend hours rendering still life or figures in 100 shades of pencil or charcoal to create a photo-realistic representation of the thing in front of me. I actually find that stuff incredibly boring to do – to reproduce what’s already there or to do something a photo is far more capable of doing than me. But, I also find it incredibly impressive to witness.

As it turns out, I have this other thing that other people I’ve met since don’t seem to have. A strength I never knew was a strength – to find the thing that makes something itself; it’s distinguishing characteristic/s. But to me, that doesn’t mean good drawing, it means something else.

If someone asks me to draw a portrait, what I’m unable to produce is a beautifully rendered, photo-realistic likeness of them; something akin to what they’d see in a mirror. I find it incredibly impressive when I watch charcoal artists do this on the street, though. No, what I’m able to produce is a few lines and dots that find the right shape of the nose, or the right colour of hair, or a particularly type of body language that makes the person that person. In both cases – the charcoal rendering or the lines and dots – the end goal is the same. But, when I do it, I say I can’t draw. Why is that?

I never really understood that what I do isn’t common because, like most strengths, it *feels* effortless (most of the time). By the way, for what it’s worth, the biggest difference between a cucumber and zucchini is that cucumbers are cut from a vine and often have a little of it still attached (like its own little umbilical cord) where as zucchinis tend to have a dried flower stump attached. But I digress.

What seems true and universal is that we always want what we don’t have. I know other representational artists who wish they could simplify in the way I do. They say they can’t draw, too, even though their strength is in their ability to render perfect proportion and detail. Like me, they say, “Oh, that’s easy, it’s just drawing what’s in front of you.” And yet, I find myself doing what they do – wishing I could draw better. More realistically.

I read somewhere once that your style is just an accumulation of the mistakes you make. And, in this case, it seems pretty accurate. Most of the time, we’re caught focussing on what we can’t do, even though what we end up with is the same – a drawing of a thing or a person who 9 out of 10 people would agree is definitely what we set out to draw. Shades of grey or lines and dots don’t seem to matter. We all think we can’t draw, but everyone else thinks we can.

So, what we’re left with is the struggle to identify, accept, and appreciate our own distinguishing characteristics. To focus on what’s there rather than what’s not there. We’re often quick to accept our physical characteristics, but less so our artistic or intellectual abilities and maybe it’s because there’s no mirror for that?

What do the following have in common: A hermit crab looking for a new shell on a beach crowded with seagulls. A butcher deciding whether his newfound veganism is a problem for his profession. An old lady who loses her only friend left in the world.

The answer is – the stakes are high. The hermit crab needs to risk her life to find new shelter. The butcher needs to decide between principles and livelihood. The old lady stares down the barrel of loneliness. Underneath all of them is fear – and, it seems, we like a bit of that in our storytelling.

Maslow’s hierarchy of needs

Maslow’s hierarchy of needs gives us a really clear view of what’s important to humans, in order of importance. The more basic the need, the higher the stakes.

Take, for example, level 1: Biological and Physical needs. This includes things like air, food, drink, shelter, warmth, sex, sleep etc. This is the level at which our hermit crab is scrapping for survival. She’s outgrowing her shell, and needs to find a new home. This basic requirement for shelter raises the stakes. Will she brave enough to dash to a new shell, risking her life as the seagulls circle looking to pick her up as soon as she leaves?

Our butcher is playing at level 2: Safety. His job is the way he makes money so he can afford the basics. We know that our job provides us security, so it’s easy to relate. Does he feel strongly enough about the safety and treatment of animals to risk his own safety?

And lastly, our old lady. She’s alone in the world. She plays at level 3: love and belonging. With no one left, how will loneliness play out in her life now. She’s old, so she’s frail, less mobile. This isn’t a good combination and probably a fear we all have at some point in our life as we head in to old age.

To improve the level of conflict, urgency and relatability in my storytelling, I often consider Maslow’s hierarchy of needs as a way to step back from the story and understand what’s really going on. The more basic the need, the more relatable and urgent the story. It’s not the only lens through which to think about a story, but it’s a usefu one.

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.