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.

My natural state is introversion. In fact, it’s probably closer to ambiversion. So when I look around and see other people like me, children’s book authors and illustrators, I don’t feel like I fit in.

I’m not zany. I don’t have an abundance of bottomless energy. I can be silly, and imaginative, but in a quiet way. I look at illustrators playing dress up for kids and others making hilarious faces and being extrovertedly humourous. I think, Is this what kids like? Do the illustrators and authors who do it find it liberating? Is this what ‘works’ for kids? Or is it what works for selling books? Are they linked?

When I think about how I present myself to the world, it’s natural to compare myself to others, we all do it. But even if I try to adopt the zany creator persona, I can’t keep it up for very long, and sure enough, I end up back in my introverted, quiet state.

So, this is me. Quiet. In a world dominated and geared for extroverted people, I’m one of the quiet ones. I’ll build my audience, bit by bit, and connect to the other quiet ones in the world. After all, diversity in all things is important, and the way to present yourself online is no different. After all, Roald Dahl doesn’t have an Instagram account and he’s doing just fine.

There’s a difference between performance, and practice. But in our social media driven world, the lines are blurring, and nothing infuriates me quite as much as all those artists out there who are doing ‘quick sketches’ that aren’t sketches at all.

This is thumbnail sheet of what I call ‘quick sketches’:

And, if you search the #quicksketch hashtag on a service like Instagram, it becomes pretty evident, very quickly, that I suck and that there are so many other people who are faster and better drawers than me.

But, then maybe there’s another possibility.

Knowing what I know now, having practised as a professional illustrator for almost 6 years at the time of writing, is that the vast majority of “quick sketches” I see online are NOT quick, or sketches. A timelapse makes something look quick. My timelapse? It took 6 hours to do! Six. Hours. Maybe I work slowly? Maybe I should be faster? Do I really care? The answer is no. My work looks the way it looks because of the time it takes.

So I’m beginning to tune out. I’m done with looking at others’ ‘quick sketches’ from the internet. I’m sticking with my ‘slow’, ‘unformed’ and let’s be frank, sketchy sketches. I’m fine with that, because if you’re trading in scarcity, speed doesn’t matter.

I’ve never had a “portfolio” – a document or a curated set of projects that I use to get illustration work. Folios are strange things because almost never are the criteria for folios clear or universal. Illustrators are told that “every publisher is different.” If that’s true, then a single portfolio will never be appropriate – we would need a different one for different clients or publishers; I don’t know about anyone else but that sounds tiring to me.

Instead of a portfolio, I have work. I draw. I paint. I write. Then, I share it – on my website, on Instagram sometimes, and on Twitter. Unless I’m working on a specific book or project, I don’t draw or paint or write for anyone but me. Then I share it. And, over time, through making the work I want to make and sharing it, different people see it. Some resonate with some images. Others resonate with others. I have people who enjoy my writing more than my drawing. I have people who enjoy my animals instead of the way I do plants. My dogs instead of my cats. My digital work instead of my analog stuff. There is no folio, there is just my work.

Most often, when people are hiring other people, they tend to need to know that you can do what they need done. If I’m going to get my toilet fixed, I’d like to know that the person I hire has fixed toilets before. If someone is going to install a pool, it would be good to know they’ve done many pools before. I wouldn’t let someone who has never successfully pulled a tooth safely from a mouth do it to me for their first time. But if they’ve done it before, I’m more likely to hire them to do it for me.

The fact is that the work you do is the work you get. And so if I don’t want to fix toilets, or build a pool, or pull a tooth from someone else’s mouth, I just won’t do it or tell anyone I can. But if I really want to draw dogs in children’s books then I’ll do that – then share it. If I really want to do underwater scenes, then that’s what I’ll spend my time drawing. Not for anyone else – not to fit a brief or pitch myself in some new or different light – but just for me.

The work I’ve got is the work I’ve made and shared. I love drawing Australian animals and making them more contemporary in style to anything that’s come before. In fact, I love anthropomorphising almost anything (but especially animals). I love the ocean (and especially rockpools), and sunsets, so I’ve made work that satisfies that deep desire. I love soft watercolours with a bit of pencil linework showing through. I love splashing ink with bold colours and character design. I’m not a fan of illustrating the built environment yet, hard lines and hard shapes (things like cars etc don’t really do it for me). These choices and biases are driven by a need to satisfy the requirements of publisher x or y – it’s just my work.

The thing is, publishers know where to look – Instagram, Twitter, TikTok, Etsy – they are normal humans doing what normal humans do. They see stuff they like, or that fits a style in their mind for a book that they’re thinking of publishing, and they see an artist who can do it for them.

It seems to me it’s far easier to work this way – enjoying each and every illustration you make – rather than trying to draw things you don’t like because the goal is to published at all costs. Chances are, a publishing deal may come along anyway, and if it doesn’t, at least you’re enjoying your limited time on this planet.

The law of diminishing returns is an economic law stating that if one input in the production of a commodity is increased while all other inputs are held fixed, a point will eventually be reached at which additions of the input yield progressively smaller, or diminishing, increases in output.

In English – at some point, doing more or throwing more at something doesn’t necessarily get you more.

When to stop?

It worries me when I hear illustrators say, “I’ve done 99 versions of this drawing to get to the right one.” Really? There wasn’t a single ‘good enough’ drawing in the first 10? Or the first 5? At the same time, I also hear illustrators say, “I can’t get enough spontaneity in my work.” And, well, after 99 tries, isn’t it clear why?

Illustrators constantly seem to be navigating this space between ‘spontaneity’ and ‘perfection’. We have a vision in our minds of what we want to achieve with a drawing but something gets lost in translation when our hands and eyes start to work together to try and get it down on paper. Our expectations are always ahead of our ability to meet them. If it wasn’t that way, we’d just stop making. And so, having felt a sense of failure at the first attempt at achieving that vision, we try again, and again, and again, until we’re looking at 99 versions of the same thing.

I can’t help but think that the law of diminishing returns applies to illustration. At what point, during the accumulation of illustration after illustration, do we stop? Sure, iteration leads to improvement – every version is a draft, after all – but why do we stop at 99 and not 10? or 5?

Calibrating to ‘the other’

Over the years, I’ve learned that others don’t see what I see. What bothers me doesn’t bother others. In fact, often what bothers me is the stuff that others *love* – the *imperfections* and the mistakes. Could someone who isn’t me tell the difference between attempt no. 3 and attempt no. 99? With each attempt, does the spontaneity degrade? Where’s the happy middle? Who are we illustrating for anyway?

I don’t know if 99 or 3 is the magic number. Maybe it’s different for each person and each drawing. But, at some point, it’s useful to remember that I’m not the audience when I’m making a book, the reader is. The ‘artist’ must give way to the ‘designer’ at some point – the question isn’t “Is this drawing good enough?” the question is, “Does this drawing give the reader what they need?” When we set our limits by someone else’s standards, and seek feedback from them early, it’s easier to know when enough is enough.

If we spend less time creating 99 drawings of the same thing to try and get to perfect, maybe we get more time to create 1 spontaneous drawing of 99 different things. I know which one I’d prefer, and which one my audience would prefer, too.