There’s a difference between doing something for your livelihood and doing it for your humanhood.

Livelihood requires trading your labour for money. Illustrating for your livelihood often involves drawing for someone else’s need. Illustrations for an annual report, a corporate animation, an advertising campaign, a magazine editorial, a complement to a cook book. There’s nothing wrong with this, and it can be fun, but, in the end, it’s about providing yourself with food, shelter, and warmth.

Humanhood is something different. Humanhood is about trading your labour for something that isn’t money – a better understanding of yourself and your place in the world. Because you’re not solving someone else’s problem, almost* no one will pay you for developing your humanhood. Drawing for your humanhood is an investment in yourself.

Sometimes, the work we do for our humanhood changes what we’re able to sell for our livelihood. For example: Maybe, in private, we explore new materials, or a new way of drawing; the sort of artistic evolution that results in some new and surprising work we’ve never done before. That work can be ‘marketed and sold’ to a buyer looking for that sort of thing. But, as soon as the contract for the work is signed, even though it came from the work we did to develop humanhood, is, in the end, solving someone else’s need – that’s why they’re paying us. Same goes for the art and design of picture books, by the way.

It’d be great if the work we did to develop our humanhood was purchased by someone, consistently enough, to provide ourselves with a livelihood, but that’s almost* never the case. But, once we’re able to differentiate between the two modes and maintain an honesty with ourselves about who we’re working for at any given time, we’re able to do both, even better than before.

*almost – it’s worth noting that there are exceptions to every rule and there are cases where anything is possible.

There are hundreds of books (and millions of YouTube videos) about art-making. From the philosophical position – why do we make it – to the concrete instruction – here’s how you paint it. The world is saturated with advice, guidance and instruction on how to make art or ‘be an artist’. It’s easy to think – what could I possibly contribute to this?

There are also, by now, probably billions of drawings of koalas, teddy bears, fire engines, hammers, parents, children, racoons, foxes, ice-cream, and all the things that typically end up in children’s books. Do we really need another version of any of those things? Someone’s already done it, so why bother?

But, perhaps the reason to bother is that people perceive the world in more than a billion ways and so the chances are pretty high that your take on how to paint light, or why you make art in the first place, will find a kindred soul or two and start a fire in them to do the same. Maybe your take on a koala will be the one that finds a small heart, somewhere in the world who says, “I like your koala better than every koala that’s come before.”

I’ve been writing on this journal once a week for 3 years. I’m pretty sure I haven’t had an insight into the art experience that hasn’t been written about before by at least one other soul in the history of human existence. Why do I bother? Well, first and foremost, writing helps me think and learn, so, on one level, I do it for myself. But, the reason its public is that maybe my take matters to someone out there, like a message in a bottle floating in vast viridian ocean. Maybe it washes up on the right beach, at the right time, when someone’s got a moment to notice.

If they don’t? That’s OK, writing those messages into the ether is still useful to me.

What if illustration was a secondary career, not the primary one? What if you didn’t have to rely on drawing to put food on the table? What if, like me, the illustration work and the ‘day job’ could co-exist and, in fact, improve one another?

Golf, animation, design

When I was 16, I had to make a decision – to pursue professional golf (yes, I was a good golfer) or go to university and study something completely different. I chose the latter. Not from fear, but because I enjoyed the game of golf too much. I couldn’t imagine ever enjoying being in a position where a 3ft putt would decide whether I could eat that week. That sounded (and still sounds) terrifying.

My other interest was animation. In fact, I thought I wanted to be an animator. Pixar and Dreamworks were just hitting the stage at the time, so I picked a uni course that opened that possibility. But, I tried 3D animation for 3 weeks in the first semester and realised how it just wasn’t for me. Too fiddly, too technical, too… disconnected from the fluency of what drawing was for me, even though I didn’t really do it much in high school, anyway.

But, what I discovered at University was Design. Design as a practice. How it applied to architecture, objects, & software. That there were people and decisions behind the spaces we inhabit and the everyday tools we use. Before then, I never really thought about that, but since then, it’s almost all I’ve thought about.

I began a career in Design almost 20 years ago. I left the idea of drawing or animation behind in high school. I would be a designer. It blended the appreciation I had for aesthetics with the enjoyment I got from making tools for people.

I worked as a Designer for 15 years. Mostly making software products that paid (and continue to pay) surprisingly well. On the most part, I enjoyed the work but found myself burning out in front of screens (I was staring at a lot of them, most of the day).

As an escape, I picked up a pencil and piece of paper for the first time in 15 years, and just drew things. For me. It was meditative, imaginative, and it re-ignited the storyteller spark in me. Because of my Design career I had enough money to buy nice materials and try many different things.

And then, a funny thing happened – I was ‘discovered’ on Instagram and offered an illustration project; in fact, 3 books… at once.

It doesn’t have to be a binary choice

Now, 8 years after that moment, I’ve got 20+ books in market and a continuing career in Design. They work together and activate different parts of my complex self. I hear illustrators who say, ‘but I can’t do anything else but draw.’ I wonder what the chances really are of that, given humans are such complex beings. Perhaps those illustrators are just more afraid of ‘letting illustration go’. As if you either are or aren’t an illustrator. But, it’s not a binary choice. It can be an ‘and’ not just an or. I’m living proof of it.

For me, the Design work I do activates the logical, deductive, and scientfic part of my brain. It forces me into situations with people that, left to my own devices, I’d probably normally avoid. But, the flipside of being in these uncomfortable situations is that I’m gaining different perspectives on how others go through the world – that’s critical to evolving my picture book work.

The illustration work I do activates the inner introvert in me – it is quiet, meditative, and isolating. The interesting thing about this mix of Design and Illustration is that they both share the most fun bit – lateral thinking and imagination. Once I’m exhausted from collaborating with others in Design work, I get to spend time alone drawing things.

Design and Illustration also work together to help me manage financial goals. I don’t need to illustrate a book to put food on the table, which means I can pick and choose the illustration projects that appeal to me emotionally. I know that, because of this, I also produce better and more authentic work, which, once again, feeds itself with more projects I like to do because it’s the authenticity that sells.

I can’t imagine how much pressure one would be under to make illustration the primary income stream, not just for oneself, but also supporting a family. It changes everything.

If it’s your primary income source, then when things are lean you may need to draw things you don’t feel like drawing which, in turn, creates illustration that you may not be authentically proud of. But, what inevitably happens is the work you do is the work you get so those illustrations become your body of work and people then believe ‘that’s the work you do’, so they ask you to do more of it. Unless you’ve got personal projects on the side to help direct a folio towards somewhere you want it to go (which is just extra, unpaid work anyway), you end up cornered.

From a financial perspective, the way people buy illustration is incompatible with the way bills come in. Bills are regular – like waves at the ocean. Project-based income is not; it’s lumpy. There are some periods of abundance and periods of scarcity. One might say, “save some of the abundance for times of scarcity, like a squirrel stores nuts”, but, with illustration, there’s no guarantee that another nut is coming at all. Or, at the very least, it’s not in the illustrators control, no matter how much ‘marketing’ or ‘self-promotion’ you’re able to do. That sounds incredibly stressful.

I’ve experienced freedom by committing to illustration work as a secondary income stream, and along with finding a primary one that doesn’t drain my creative energy, I’ve found it’s possible to have both. Maybe there are others out there who may find the same thing?

The other day I posted 7 still images and a synopsis of a personal project I’d been working on called “Colour Hunter”. I did it mostly to demonstrate to other emerging artists that I take my own advice – work on stuff that matters to you without thinking about what a publisher might think. By working in this way, one ends up producing work they like and are proud of and it’s not judged by the ‘success’ of a publishing contract or not.

As it turns out, those 7 still images attracted 5 different publishers seeking to ‘work together on this’. It was never meant for that, but that’s what happened.

The problem with marketing art

We’re living in a time when marketing art is difficult; where obscurity, not piracy, is more of a threat to an artist’s livelihood. The primary channels of getting our work out there, at the time of writing this, are owned and supplied by large tech companies – TikTok and Instagram (via Facebook) – and they have a stronghold on the world’s attention through things like the network effect.

The goal of companies like Instagram and TikTok is engagement – more eyeballs for longer periods of time so that they can charge a higher premium for advertisers to advertise to us. We could moralise over that model for years but the bigger problem for artists is that, what Instagram wants, it will get. Do what we need or your work won’t get seen.

At least, that’s the threat.

There is currently huge pressure on artists to play Instagram’s game. Short form video content is proving a pathway to higher engagement for those platforms (and by engagement, I mean attention, not active likes, clicks and so on). But what does it mean to be a person that produces still images, then?

I’ve seen painters dancing in front of their canvas. I’ve seen illustrators uploading ‘videos’ of a single unmoving image in the hope that Instagram will see it as something they want – short form video content – without having to become a video producer as well as an illustrator. I’ve seen ‘book unboxings’ by authors – another cheap and easy pathway to short form video content without doing too much work outside of their comfort zone.

I’ve felt the pressure, too. I could make videos about how I make art, how others make art; timelapses, instructionals, and podcasts are all possible. But, you know what, for every timelapse I set up, for every video I produce, for every podcast I participate in, I lose time for doing what I want to do – explore the power of the still image.

Some people will say that I’m not like them. That I’m already ‘discovered’. That people are already watching. And yes, that’s true. With 20+ picture books under my belt I’m becoming more a of ‘known quantity’. But my career began 8 years ago with a few still images. 8 years later, 7 still images piqued interest again.

Every artist will have a different appetite for how much proverbial dancing in the front of the canvas they want to do. But, unless you have made the work before you make the marketing, no amount of singing and dancing will grow a career, or, more importantly, an inner life of the artist. Isn’t chasing interior peace in one’s own mind and body the reason we create art in the first place?

Sure, it’s nice to feel seen, but feeling seen is now the business model underlying TikTok and Instagram so it becomes unhealthy for someone trying to explore what they think, in private, most of the time. Perhaps if we did less dancing and more painting or drawing, the work will improve so much that it will speak for itself. Maybe everything else is a distraction?

Among all the reasons for writing, the most important one for me is that I write to think. If I don’t write – this journal, that story – it’s not long before my brain becomes a muddled mess of half-formed, incomplete ideas.

I draw to think, too – either on a whiteboard or in a sketchbook – the physical act of movement, of responding to what emerges on the page that wasn’t there before is critical in helping shape what I see, how I feel, and how I might make others feel.

Many non-writers or drawers assume that artists and writers don’t put pencil to paper or fingers to keyboard until we have the idea. That we wait for ‘divine inspiration to strike, a spirit moving through us or a clear mind image of what needs to appear on paper. The truth is, the idea or the images emerge *through the act*. The best thing about this is that there’s only one way to prove this is true, and you don’t have to have the idea to begin with – just pick up a pencil, or open the text editor, and start.

I’ve recently discovered that every time I’ve changed jobs (about 5 times in my career), I’ve bought a new pair of nice shoes. At the time, I tell myself I need them for the job. Sneakers for the less corporate times, brogues for the times I need to dress up like when I’m consulting to government, boots for when I’m ‘on farm’ with landholders.

I’ve learned, over the years, that how I dress matters. Not just to those who meet me for the first time, like in a new job, but to how I behave when I’m wearing what I wear. If I put on a suit (a rare occasion for me), I stand taller. If I wear my ‘usual’ clothes (cardigan and sneakers), I feel more relaxed.

What does that mean for dressing while art making? Well, I never bought new shoes when I got my first contract – or ever even thought about it? I know that, for practicality, it would be better to wear ‘junk’ clothes; clothes I’d be OK getting paint on.

But, when I dress ‘like a bum’, I feel like one, and when I feel like one, I’m not in a great space for making work. So, instead of new shoes, I bought an apron. And not some crappy plastic kitchen one, it’s a nice apron. When I wear this apron, I feel like an artist. I feel like I can make things I’ve never made before. I feel like I’m part of a longer story of artists throughout the ages; I’m doing something important.

And, whilst I know that feeling a particular way doesn’t make it true, there is research to suggest that what we wear matters. I’d never encourage anyone to buy something when they can make do with what they’ve got but perhaps, occassionally, we can treat ourselves to some new shoes, just to see where we’ll go?

One of the most consistent pieces of advice I find myself giving to emerging illustrators over the years has been, “don’t draw for someone else. Draw what you enjoy. Make what you find interesting. Do it for yourself.” I still stand by that as the best advice, especially when starting out. But, there’s also something to be said for evolving an art practice using external influences.

Responding to a brief, engaging with commissions, and collaborating with others (authors, publishers etc) push me out of my comfort zone much further than if I were making up my own work. No matter how much we want to tell ourselves that we can push ourselves to do something ‘different than usual’, our unconscious biases will always be at play in the background (that’s what makes them unconscious).

Rosie the Rhinoceros (Jimmy Barnes) and Herman Crab (Peter Helliar) strike me as my two most recent examples where this is true. It’s also part of the reason why I love illustrating another’s text. There is no way that if I was working on my own, characters and illustrations I’ve invented in response to the text for Rosie the Rhinoceros and Herman Crab would have emerged. I needed that external influence – those prompts, those relationships – to produce the work I did for those two books.

Because of the external influence of another’s text, I painted things I’ve never painted before. Because of that, the work I’ve done since then has grown in variation, maturity, and confidence. I used to think that being in publishing was all about amplifying one’s own work. Now, it’s just another tool in the belt of how to become a better visual storyteller. It sits alongside my personal work, in harmony not competition, and both the personal and commercial work is getting better for it.

Sometimes, for some ideas, now is not the right time, but it’s not always obvious. Sometimes, we’re not in the right headspace, or our lives are full of things that need more attention. Sometimes, we don’t have the artistic skill to execute what we can see in our minds. Sometimes, we don’t have the right people to collaborate with at the time. Sometimes, now is not the right time.

For some ideas, just like a good sourdough, time is an ingredient. Even though it can feel like we’re slacking off, or being lazy, or just not ‘pushing on’. The difficult bit is interrogating where our inaction comes from. Is it fear? Self doubt? I’m not good enough? No one will like this? I can’t afford to take the risk? Or, does our inaction simply come because the world, or ourselves, aren’t ready for it yet.

Being patient can feel very much like procrastination or fear, but the sources are different. And, ‘waiting’ for something feels like we’re not doing anything. But, as Auguste Rodin (the sculptor of The Thinker) so wisely said, Patience is a form of action.

I remember feeling very excited when I found my first book, Row Row Row Your Boat, in an actual bookshop, on an actual shelf, next to other actual books by actual authors and illustrators I admired. You would think that this would provide the motivation to do another one, and another one, and another one. But, I’ve come to realise that, for me, the motivation has never really been about the ‘legitimacy’ of being published, it’s been about creating physical art – stuff that I can touch and feel – as a ‘breadcrumb trail’ of my evolution as an illustrator, a storyteller, and a human.

Something gets lost in the digitisation

I find that, in the digitisation of my art (via hi-res scanning), something is lost. The texture, the staining, the pencil marks, they all feel different to me when I see it printed on a the same shiny pages within a commercially produced children’s book.

Don’t get me wrong, I get used to it, and I still love my books. But when I open one of my originals from the archive, the feeling is different. The feeling I get from seeing the original is one of scarcity, of preciousness. An internal voice says, “this is the only version of this in the whole world, and it’s right here.” The relationship to the work has an intimacy that I don’t get from one of 10,000 copies sitting in a warehouse somewhere.

Why does any of this matter? Because, in my view, it’s important for artists to be clear on their motivation and where they derive satisfaction. If all we care about is being ‘validated’ through the commercialisation of our work, then what do we do if/when it’s not commercialised? If, however, what we care about is finding out who we become through each and every piece we create, then it no longer matters if someone buys the work. All that matters is that we keep making it.

An art practice is a funny thing. We’d like to think there are rules, processes, or certain ways of doing things; things that are more likely to lead to success and/or failure. But, for every one bit of advice, there’s another contrary piece of equal value.

Take, for example, imposing constraints. I’ve written before about how I find constraints very useful. By imposing constraints, it can free us up to think and work within them. In a world of limitless art subjects, constraining ourselves can help us develop in a particular way. Or, like my studio space; it’s small. But it’s small size allows me to think cleverly about the space – to prioritise ruthlessly. It’s often priority that leads to progress.

Or is it?

On the weekend, I did something rare (for me) – I played with a new type of art material. I had previously constrained myself to watercolour. The theory was that the focus on just one medium meant I could push my ability to use it in ways that people before me had not.

But, in that pursuit for purity, I found myself in situations where I simply could not produce what my brain could I imagine. The frustration grew to the point where I dismantled the one constraint I’ve been living with for years.

In the process of learning about this new medium by playing around with it in my studio (I was painting swatches of the colours), I accidentally squeezed out too much green. So, instead of wasting it by letting it dry on the palette, I picked up a scrap bit of paper and painted a giant green swatch.

That giant (too bright) green swatch became a background for this image. In my mind, it was cute, but nothing exceptional (although I learned a lot about the new medium by painting this).

When I shared this image on Instagram in the last week, a publisher reached out – “Hey Matt, I think there’s a story here.”

There was?

And, sure enough, that prompt led to a new story idea which I’m developing as I write this journal entry. Will this story about an avocado be politically important? World-changing? A significant contribution to my body of work and my identity as an artist? Probably not. But, had I not decided to break one of the constraints imposed upon myself, that painting would never have happened. It’s an image I would never have produced had I constrained myself to watercolour.

Constraints are useful, but then, so is stepping outside of the boundaries we have sometimes to try something new. Like most things with art, there are not rights and wrongs, only what works. The act of art-making is, at its core, an act of discovering who we are and so, don’t we owe it to ourselves, sometimes, to break our own rules to meet a version of ourselves we haven’t met before?