It’s always been interesting to me that in a world before globalisation, almost every culture, country, or continent ‘invented’ an alcoholic beverage. Rice in Japan, Wheat/Rye in England or Germany, Grapes in France. This was at a time where there was no cross-continent, instant knowledge transfer like there is now, so no one could learn from another. The different beverages – sake, beer, and wine, for example, were all discovered at different times and in different ways, in independent, closed cultures across the world, but people still got drunk and, largely, enjoyed it.

This is the concept of equifinality – the same outcome but different paths to get there – and it doesn’t just happen with alcohol. Agriculture, Weapons, Food and many other major developments in human evolution all lead to the same place but by vastly different means and influences.

What does equifinality mean for art? Well, it means that Felix Mendelssohn can bring a tear to an eye, and so can Charles Dickens. It means Arthur Streeton can reveal a vision of Australia that shows us something different, and so can Joseph Zbukvic. It means that no one medium is ‘better’ than another in expressing something or provoking an audience reaction. It means that, if we focus on the outcome rather than output, we can get there, even if it’s not how we expected it would happen.

Whenever I start a project, expectations are high. I have a vision in my mind of what I’m aiming to produce and so I set out in search of that elusive goal – to make my hands produce what my mind can see.

The reality is that I almost never get there. In fact, if I ever have, it would mean I’d stop creating art. So, whilst in theory, I want to hit the goal, there’s something in the impossibility of the task that is the thing that forms my art practice.

So, how do I publish non-perfect work? It takes practice. It takes an acknowledgement that, most of the time, the standards I set for myself are always higher than the standards that others set for me. That’s where the “radius of OK” comes in.

The radius of OK

The radius of “OK” is, in my mind, a ballpark. It allows me to ask the question – does this final illustration achieve what it was intended to achieve, even though it may not be exactly what I saw in my head? I don’t like to think about this as, you know, a percentage, or some imaginary bar to clear – that doesn’t feel particularly rewarding. It’s more about asking, “did I get close enough?”

Maybe it’s because I grew up playing golf, but, I know the chances of getting the ball in the hole from 180metres away is pretty unrealistic. But, hitting the green is something far more achievable. And, over time, the more one practices at golf, the better one gets at hitting the green. In golf, they have stat called “Greens in Regulation” which aims to capture this exact thing. Yes, getting the ball in the hole is important, but when you’re starting from a distance, hitting a green is just fine.

How does an artist decide whether to do something the slow way or the fast way? There are pros to both.

The fast way means getting to the end of something sooner, and there are plenty of lessons learned in finishing something. Once something is finished, it means feedback, and it’s through feedback that we’re able to work out what to keep or change if anything, the next time. The 100 pots study is a good example of why it’s important to finish something quickly and try it again.

The long way also has its benefits. While we may rob ourselves of the critical feedback from the public, which is often required for us to grow and learn, the long way tends to make it about us and the work, not the work and the public. If the goal of creating art is to help us answer the questions we find ourselves asking of the world, the long way round gives us more time to think through our response; to hold the space between complete ambiguity and an answer so that we give the idea space to breathe and work out what our *actual*, deeply held response to the question is, not, perhaps, the surface level one we drive toward with the easy way.

Maybe the long way round teaches us something that the fast way doesn’t? Maybe focussing on the journey instead of the destination has value? But maybe the opposite is true, too. There are many reasons to choose the long way, and equally many to choose the fast way.

What probably matters most is that the choices we make are conscious, not unconsidered. If we’re clear on the questions we set out to answer beforehand, chances are we’ll find our answers whichever route we take, and we may also be surprised along the way too. After all, that’s the fun bit.

There are 2 ways to look at the strengths and skills that come innately to us and not to others. The first way is to see it as a competitive advantage and to do everything in our power to leverage it in this hyper-capitalist economy. In this version, the gifted feel ‘entitled’ – as if they have a ‘head start’. Taking advantage of the gift is a priority, and fully in the individual’s control. If you don’t do everything in your power to use that advantage, you’ve failed. It’s a very individualist mindset – every person for themselves and it’s not my problem if you’ve wasted the opportunity to use your strengths.

The second way is to acknowledge that the strengths and weaknesses are unique and individual, but true advantage of them cannot be taken without depending on others. In this mindset, the strengths we each possess are ‘in trust’ – borrowed from the cosmic chaos of the universe and as such, should in some way benefit the universe in return.

All by myself?

It turns out that one of my strengths is visual communication. Out of all of the trillions of possible permutations, the atoms in my body have arranged themselves in a way that has created a natural hyper-sensitivity to colour, movement, line, and shape. But, for me to be able to use those fully, I need others. I need the farmers who grow the cotton that gets turned into my paper that I use to capture that colour, movement, line and shape. I need the paper makers and all of the history of science and the industrial world whose progress helped create the technology that those paper makers use today. I need the sable, whose hair goes into the brushes that I use. I need the trees from which the brush handles are made. I need the craftsmen and women who craft the individual components into what we see as a brush in the store. I need the building blocks of colour chemistry whose knowledge and skill have evolved from the knowledge of early humans – those that ground the first red scarab beetle to make a colour. I could write pages and pages of how the universe’s systems, and my place in the timeline of it all, which is largely a big pile of chaotic luck, have enabled me to use the strengths that I have in the way that I’m doing it in my brief speck of time on earth.

The interconnectedness and interdependence we, as individual permutations of human biology, have on each other and the biological world around us that’s been evolving over millions of years is something that’s easy to forget when we’re struggling with the fear that comes along with sharing our art. But, maybe the idea that we’ve taken from the environment compels us to give something back? Maybe that’s the impetus some of us need, to simply pay back that debt, even if it means no financial gain – the type of gain we’ve come to think is the point of it all. Instead, maybe it’s about giving something back to the timeline so that, maybe one day, something or someone somewhere will use or build upon. Just as we have.

Ask a person from each continent or country of the world what they have for breakfast and you’ll get different answers. There is, of course, the breakfast cereal; popular in Western cultures. There’s congee, a type of savoury rice porridge popular in Asian countries (and Hilton Hotel buffets in Australia). There’s bacon and eggs, popularised in the UK/Scotland, cured meats and cheese in Germany, pastries in France, pancakes in Sweden, tofu and fish in Japan. The variety of foods that cultures have for breakfast are, indeed, without limit.

However, most of us grow up in one place, and so the idea of ‘breakfast’ is relatively fixed by the culture in which we grew up. Breakfast, to most of us, is *supposed* to be from a particular *range* of things. If, in Australia, I served someone tofu and fish for breakfast instead of cereal or bacon and eggs, the reaction borders on revulsion. Likewise, trying to get a ham and cheese toasted sandwich in rural Japan is near impossible – it’s just not what is done.

Cultural norms are not immutable laws

Cultural norms, like breakfast, are not immutable laws. And whilst sticking to cultural norms like breakfast are safe, they also restrict opportunity and creative thinking. And so, if there is no such thing as ‘breakfast food’, what else is a norm and not a law? What defines a book, movie, or music ‘genre’? What themes are ‘allowed’ in children’s books? How many pages are they ‘allowed’ to be? How many words are the allowed to have? Does the sky have to be blue? The grass, green? Is it supposed to rhyme, or not? Am I allowed to prioritise art in my life? Do I have to do the chores before I give myself permission to enjoy myself? Do I need a ‘studio’ to make art, or is the kitchen table just fine?

Cultural norms run rife through all facets of every culture and they can rule our thinking to our detriment. One of the many jobs of the artist is to question them because often, that’s where the most interesting work happens, even if serving tofu and fish for breakfast is a bit scary sometimes – maybe you’ll find someone who likes it. Of course, the opposite may be true, too.

When my first book, Eric the Postie, was signed, I saw it as a fluke – a one-off and something I just got lucky with. I told myself I wouldn’t consider myself a ‘writer’ until there was a second book. First time is luck, second time would be skill, or something like that.

When my second book was signed, Queen Celine, I saw it as another fluke, not proof that I could write for children. “What are the chances?” I said to myself, “2 books written, 2 books published! That’s amazing!” I told myself I wouldn’t consider myself a writer until I ‘tricked’ someone else into it again, just one more time – a third book. That was still true, even when both Eric the Postie and Queen Celine went on to claim CBCA notable prizes in their respective years.

Now, I’ve gone on to write four or five books that have been signed with various publishers. Some have originated from me, others have been a response to a commission – receiving a contract for a book I haven’t even written yet. Do I feel like ‘a writer’ yet? Well, no. Which brings me to some questions – what will it take for that to change, and what is a writer, anyway?

What do I need to do to earn the label?

By any objective measure, five signed books as author/illustrator is success – it’s enough objective data for me to know it’s not dumb luck or a fluke. It’s not liked I’ve duped one publisher either, I’m working across many different ones. But still, there’s something in my mind that will not let me identify as a ‘writer’.

Maybe it’s because we all operate on different scales of success? Maybe it’s because I never went to art school and I’m not ‘credentialed’? But shouldn’t the books themselves be credentials – proof that I can do this? Or maybe I imagine a writer to be someone or something different. Maybe the cultural stereotype of a ‘writer’ – the lonely soul tapping away at a typewriter tucked away in the garret – is so burned in my brain that, if I don’t look or act like that, then I can’t possibly be one.

In the end, what I know is true is that an artist is what they make. Make a painting? Maybe I’m a painter. Sculpt some clay? Maybe I’m a sculptor. Write a children’s book? Just one, or many, maybe that’s enough to start embracing the labels I’ve kept so distant. Maybe if I just keep making work, the labels will take care of themselves? Maybe the labels are for other people and not me? Labels help humans make sense of the world, but do I need them for myself? Maybe I don’t need to concern myself with what label fits me now or in the future, what matters is that I’m having fun and making work that I think matters – that’s when the best work happens anyway, no matter the form it takes or whether anyone else likes it.

I have a rule – no clocks in the studio. Clocks are the enemy of flow. They are such an efficient communication device that even a glance at one tells me if I’m running early or late, ready for lunch or dinner. When I’m catching a train, this efficiency is important. When I’m making art, it’s a recipe for disruption.

Making art, for me, is a shortcut to flow – a state that takes me out of myself and gives me incredible focus. I can sometimes paint for 8 hours straight without a food break when I’m really enjoying the challenge of articulating the thing I can see in my head – when it’s just me and the work. But, when a clock is introduced, a cursory glance immediately brings me back to the commitments of the external world – lunchtimes and break times, chores like getting to the post office before it closes, or realising that it’s getting late and I should really wrap up.

Clocks are an invitation to put down tools and do something else – something more important (at least by the rest of the world’s standards). Yes, persistent flow states aren’t good for me either, and I’ve had to set alarm timers to ensure I remain hydrated and healthy. But, in a world of hyper-distraction and procrastination, keeping clocks out of the studio is one effective but meagre defence in the pursuit of the focus that’s required to make the best work I can.

It’s much easier to tell a group of friends that I have a rule – Fridays and Sundays are for studio work – than to say “I’d prefer to stay home and work in the studio on Fridays and Sundays.” Preferences can be bargained with, “Oh, just this once!” they say, “You work too hard” or “You can’t work all the time”. When it’s a preference, it’s flexible, when it’s a rule, it’s not. People understand rules and they respect them. It’s not that I don’t want to see them, or I’d prefer to stay indoors like a hermit and paint, no, it’s not that at all. It’s just, I have a rule.

Everyone agrees that a choir needs four main vocal ranges. The soprano takes care of the high female range. The alto contributes the low female vocal range. The tenor (hello, Pavarotti) is the high adult male voice, and the bass is the low adult male voice. If one of these roles are missing, the output isn’t as rich or moving as it could be.

A picture book is no different. Sure, there are two names on the cover: the illustrator who draws the pictures and the author who writes the words, but there’s a cast of people who are critical to bringing the book to the world (editor, publisher, designer, printer etc).

When it comes to school and work, though, we seem to have a different mindset. From a very early age, each of us is supposed to be individually wonderful at everything – maths, science, history, geography, art. Right from the beginning, we’re trained toward an individualist mindset. Instead of spending time and energy identifying and honing an individual’s strengths, and teaching us how to work together to produce rich and moving output, as is the default in a choir, we spend exponentially more time and energy teaching kids to be good at everything. If you’re weak at maths, we get tutored for it. But we (or, at least I) don’t go to after school art classes if we can see a kid has a propensity toward expression with colour, shape and line.

A strengths-based approach to growth, paired with a focus on working together, not only means that individuals can spend more time doing what they’re good at (and therefore more likely to enjoy it), but we’re able to create the richest and most moving music, together – something greater than the sum of its parts.

If only I had more space. I’d be able to store more supplies and have a separate place for digital and physical work. I’d keep things in more easily accessible ways so I could maintain my flow state. I’d be able to store different types of paper, and play more expressively with acrylics, and paint in oils because I’d have room to let them dry.

But, I used to say this sort of thing in the previous place we lived, which is much smaller than the one we live in right now. So, compared to that, now I’ve got heaps of space. And so I can’t help but think that maybe what I need isn’t more space, but to think differently about what I’ve got. It seems that no matter how much space we have to make our work, we’ll always want more because the more we have, the more we fill it. The problem with more options is that, beyond a certain number, we tend to be overwhelmed by them and end up not doing anything at all. There’s a name for this, it’s called the Paradox of Choice.

In 2000, a study was conducted about the paradox of choice. Researchers set up a market stall with 24 kinds of jam for sale. They gave samplers a $1 coupon off any jam. On a different day, shoppers saw a market stall with only 6 kinds of jam instead of the 24 from the previous day. The larger display attracted more samplers but ultimately led to fewer sales than the smaller display.

And so, no matter what our situation, maybe it’s better to work within constraints. What can be achieved in a small space, or with limited supplies, may be exactly what we need to unlock our mind and produce work that still answers the questions that the soul asks of us. It’s certainly true of why I began using watercolour over other less portable and messier mediums. Perhaps we are more resourceful if we have fewer resources.