In 1974, we, the humans, sent a message into space. It had the sole purpose of attempting to make contact with alien life. At that time, and still to this day in 2021, we have no evidence for the existence of alien life. For years, creators of fiction have painted various pictures of what the day would be like for us if we stumbled across an Other – a species capable of communicating with us in a meaningful way. Some depict the annihilation of our species, others paint a more optimistic view of intergalactic alliances.

Modern-day marketing likes to talk about being evidence-based with the work we make. The expert advice says, “Understand your target market”, “Focus on the customer”, “Uncover their problems and solve those, for them.” Which, is good advice if your goal is to run a sustainable business. But, the problem with the evidence-based approach of modern-day marketing theory is that it’s disastrous for making art.

Just like the Arecibo telescope did in 1974, there is always a case – a reason – to work with faith, not data. The process of art is to help the artist answer their own questions about the world. We squirrel away in whatever medium feels right, often in isolation, so that we can understand ourselves and our place in the beating heart of the world. And, once we’re satisfied with the output of that investigation for ourselves, we send it out into the world; just like Arecibo.

The message from Arecibo has not yet provoked a response. In fact, it’s estimated the signal is about 47 light-years away as of 2020. But, it’s out there to be discovered. And the hope that one day, in some distant future, a group of humans may benefit from it, makes it worth it. The chances are small, but some hope is better than none.

As artists, we also send messages out into the world with hope; we hope they’ll find someone else who can decipher it, understand it, or benefit from it in some way. Our work orbits humanity’s collective consciousness on social media platforms, every share or like slightly amplifying it to other people like us. We may never find out if the message lands, and it’s unlikely that taking this approach will lead to any form of meaningful income (see Vincent Van Gogh). But, in the same way, that Arecibo scientists may never know about the impact of the message they created, taking the risk of simply putting the message out there may be the biggest act of generosity a human can perform. Whilst the chances are small, some hope is better than none.

When something’s too big and scary to accomplish, break it down, they say. Make it smaller and smaller until you’ve got small, achievable chunks of work.

But there’s an art to breaking things down into manageable chunks. And I don’t mean saying things like, “I’m going to write a novel, so I need to do a chapter a week for 52 weeks then I’ll be done.” Or, if I’m making a graphic novel, simply saying, “i’ll just do a panel-a-day” won’t make it any easier. What makes it easier? Finishing ‘something’.

How to finish

As artists, we all have goals. One day, I want to write a novel. But writing a novel is going to take a *very* long time. I don’t even know what it takes to write a novel. I can get a sense of what it’s like from testimony – other authors who have accomplished the task and share their words of wisdom about how to do it. We’ve all heard it before, “Write everyday”, “Write whenever you feel like”, “Write for you” or “Write for your audience”. For every piece of sage advice, there’s another sage who went about it the opposite way. All that really tells me is that there are different paths for different people. So what sort of person am I?

What’s your skateboard?

In agile software development, we have the concept of building a skateboard, first. It’s a helpful analogy that is intended to describe the simplest way to achieve your goal. For example, if your goal is to get from A to B, you could build a car. But that’s expensive, and it may take a long time. A skateboard is cheaper and lighter and it will get you from A to B, but maybe not in the comfort or glory that you imagined.

Writing a novel is a bit like building a car. It can take professional novelist 3+ years to write a novel. If I’m a novice, it’s going to take me a lot longer than that. And even then, when I get to the end, I won’t know if it’ll be any good for anyone else to read!

But writing a novel is, in fact, simply telling a story. A novel has a beginning, middle, and end. It has characters, plot, sub-plots. It has a ‘writer-style’, personality, brand. It helps the author explore deep questions about themselves. All of those things that make up a novel can be found in a short story, or even micro-fiction. Perhaps, the skateboard version of a novel is a short story. It’s less time-consuming, less expensive, and when you’re done, you can get feedback more quickly on whether your beginning, middle, and end is present; if your characters are well developed alongside your plot. You can begin to understand your writing style. Sure, it’s not a Ferrari, but it’ll get you from A to B so you can learn from it and then build your bicycle.

The same thing goes for picture books. They take A LOT of work to illustrate. Freya Blackwood says it takes her about 6 months to do one book. And that’s when the words are provided! What’s the picture book illustrator’s skateboard? Well a picture-book illustrator is a visual storyteller. They take a set of words (normally about 300-500), and they tell a story within and alongside them. All of that can be achieved in a single image and a few words. In fact, this is exactly what Scholastic saw when they offered me a contract. I accidentally showed them I could ride a skateboard so they threw me in a car and said, “That’s OK, you know how to get from A to B, just do it for 32 pages now”.

Not writing a novel, just getting from A to B

Agile software development has taught me the art of breaking things down. To have a look at what’s going on at a functional level and create new and interesting ways to achieve the same goal for cheaper and faster. It just so happens that it works the same way for any giant goal we set ourselves. Once we remove the ego involved in wanting to tell our friends, ‘we wrote a novel’, the path toward that final goal isn’t as difficult or as epic as it seems.

Humans love magic, most of the time. We perceive something to be magic when the cause and effect of some event isn’t immediately obvious or deducible to us. We say things like, “How did they do that?” when a magician makes a coin disappear from one hand and immediately appear in the other. It’s ‘amazing’.

Hiding the cause and effect of an event has its benefits. Who doesn’t enjoy the surprise when a performing magician levitates their assistant with nothing but a wave of the hand? Surprise is something worth paying for. We love the challenge of trying to work out how it was done. Magic that does no harm, or is there for us as entertainment, is something to be celebrated.

Like magicians, artists can also make magic. There have been plenty of times where I’ve gazed upon a painting, awestruck at their ability to create a particular effect. Amanda Hyatt, Joseph Zbukvic, Alvaro Castagnet are magicians in my mind. And they’re good at guarding their secrets. Their secrets are worth something so people pay handsome prices to attend closed-off workshops in the hope that one or two secrets will be revealed.

Perfecting magic tricks take time – years. It requires privacy for true practice; we cannot safely fail if there is any element of performance to our practice. And yet, the social media machine calls. In a bid to take advantage of the algorithms we’re prompted to post every day (or at least 3 times a week). The power and pressure of ‘fuelling the feed’ is an anathema to making true magic.

I see artists online, many in children’s publishing – the most giving of all art industries –  expose their cause and effect for free, over and over and over again. They post highly-produced videos, sharing their secrets and methods. Walkthroughs, sketch time-lapses, materials etc. Yes, it’s incredibly engaging content, and the social media gods reward them for that; but what’s the cost to their practice in the long run? And is the value exchange fair? I’m not sure that’s clear.

The best, most revered magicians are the ones who don’t reveal their secrets. They’re the ones who are making magic and audiences are showing up to be surprised and delighted, precisely because they are kept in the dark. Magicians (and the best fine artists alike) manufacture and understand the art of surprise, there’s value in keeping things a little private sometimes, even if Instagram or Twitter give us stats to try and prove otherwise.

Staying focussed on creative work – one project at a time – is difficult. In fact, it’s probably one of the hardest things to do in the new attention economy we live in. We’re exposed to millions of snippets, moments, and ideas every day – each one is a thread on which the creative brain can pull in order to invent a new piece of art.

So how does one prioritise? Well, deadlines help. Once you have that elusive ‘contract’ with a publisher, you’re obliged to deliver against it. The problem is contracts are elusive. Having someone care about your work, at all, is elusive. So, if those two external motivations don’t exist, what’s left? The only answer is the artist themselves.

What questions are you trying to answer?

The drive to make things (art, performance, software) comes from our need to answer the questions that percolate in our minds. For me, I use the medium of pencil and watercolour, words and pictures, to play through scenarios and what-ifs? For example, Queen Celine (before she was a book) was attempting to answer the question, “What if our national borders closed for good? What if nothing – the people, the things we produce in a society – never change? Is change good and necessary? Are we better off because of it?” I prioritised her because, for me, I wanted to know the answer to that question.

Pip and Pop, my webcomic that isn’t published by a traditional publisher, was and remains important. The question about how we resolve intergenerational communication and the growing divide between the old and young created a burning need in me to work through the pros and cons of each generation’s perspective on things. What I’m learning from that simple comic is that there’s a lot to learn from one another.

Perhaps, instead of thinking about all those creative projects that are drawing our interest, we can reflect, rather, on the questions we seek to answer for ourselves and prioritise answering those in whatever medium helps us work through it. We may even find (like I did with Queen Celine) that there are enough people trying to answer the same question such that someone in a position of influence thinks it’s worth re-producing 10,000 times with that elusive contract after all. And if not, at least you’re answering the questions in life that are important to you – you’re finding the answers you seek.

Sometimes, I forget that there are people in the world who struggle to visualise things in abstract ways. I know, it’s a stupid thing for an illustrator to say, but I need constant reminding.

I’ve been in many meetings & pitches where I’ve presented someone some sketches, maybe a storyboard. It’s as rough as guts but, in my head, it gets the idea across. The point of the pitch at this stage isn’t the finer details, but maybe the story arc, or the flow of words, maybe some rough layouts. In my head, I can see how these basic sketches will become gorgeous, full colour, emotionally raw images and how those images will complement the words to produce a stunning story. But, many others can’t.

What does it mean to be a visual person?

I’m told this all the time by people with whom I collaborate, “I’m a visual person.” It turns out that when I hear those words I confuse that with “I’m OK to fill in the gaps in partially completed work.” What I’ve come to learn about people who say they are ‘visual people’ is that, often, they’re the opposite of abstract thinkers. What those ‘visual’ people need are concrete, final-art-ish rendering of the vision inside my head. It’s only when I take the time to paint a few images of the ‘final state’ that those visual people ‘get it.’ Once that vision is drawn and made concrete in their minds, then they’re able to think abstractly about the storyboard or the sketches as a way to arrive there.

I often think that I’m wasting time by fully-rendering an idea so that others can ‘get it.’ Or, by rendering something fully, I’m missing out on the wonderful feedback and input from my collaborators that I know will make the idea better. Maybe it’s just a lack of confidence in myself?

In my head, it’s quicker for me to rough something out and talk people through it. But, I think that approach is giving me a false positive because it’s not the art I want to save time with, it’s the conversation. By spending extra time rendering a fully-formed vision for someone, the conversation goes much quicker – the feedback I receive is clearer. Feedback, after all, is the fuel I need to make my idea better, and so the quicker I can arrive there, the better off everyone is.

I’m a big fan of Nigella’s approach to cooking. Unlike the scientific, mad-scientist brand that someone like Heston Blumenthal has created for himself (which I also love, by the way), Nigella’s approach to food is a comfort. She makes cooking feel achievable by putting the focus on the primal and intuitive feelings of food. But, just because I have the recipes for her amazing food, doesn’t mean I can cook like her.

I see many artists talk about how copying other artists is not an ‘authentic’ way to produce ‘art’. How mimicry is a bad thing. How they should be able to ‘come up with their own work’ or ‘be original’. But, even the greatest artists (and cooks) must begin somewhere. It seems that style emerges through mimicry, not by avoiding it. Even if I buy Nigella’s cookbooks, and use them everyday, the dish I make will never be like hers, and that’s OK.

It’s a quote I come back to, often, in my creative and innovation practice. The famous Henry Ford quote, “If I asked people what they wanted, they would’ve said a faster horse.” It’s meant to be an explanation for creative genius, that you can’t research your way to innovation because most people, on the whole, cannot imagine a future that leapfrogs our current tools or culture.

Publishers are, generally, pretty risk-averse. In every book or artist they choose to publish, there’s an element of gambling. If we ‘invest’ in this book, what will it return? Will it pay for itself? Will it produce a profit?

And, like in horse-racing, there are safer bets than others. In an objective, increasingly commercial world, books authored by celebrities will have a higher chance of a good commercial return than a story by someone no one has ever heard of. Why? Well, celebrities have their own reach (thousands or millions of social media followers), and also ‘brand recognition’. The theory goes that if someone likes a well-known comedian’s comedy, and they see a book by that comedian, even if that comedian has not track record of writing good books, they’re more likely to purchase it because they believe they’ll be more likely to enjoy it.

In many ways, the de-risking of book publishing works similarly to the sentiment that Henry Ford tried to express. True originality scares people. Publishers, on the whole, know what works. Whether it’s the percentage of celebrities v new authors, or certain subject matter over another, there are safe bets. But, every now and then, a publisher takes a ‘big risk’. They publish something that’s outside of the normal, safe, cultural evolution. Sometimes they lose, but sometimes they win, big. There are millions of kids books about poo, farts, bums, and mums. There are far fewer kids books about death, disability, racism, or grief. But when books from that second group come along, they blow us out of the water. Yes, they need to be done ‘well’, but they often are. I love Enchanted Lion Books and Gecko Press for this reason.

As an artist, and one who wants to remain published, it’s safe for me to pitch books and stories to publishers that I know are in their ‘safe-zone’. Need another bunny story? I got one. How about one about love? Yep, here you go. But, the power and beauty in books for children is that they are one of our last spaces where inter-generational conversation is possible. It’s one of our final ‘public squares’ where true conversation and exploration can still happen. If there was ever a place to influence our world, this place is it. It’s partly why it’s such an honour and pleasure to be working in it. But, to change things, things need to change. And so while what publishers will tell us is that they want a ‘faster horse’, it’s our responsibility, as artists, to show them that what they really want is to get to their destination – a better, more inclusive world – to be part of the change for good.

I spend approximately 90% of my non-sleeping hours in collaboration or conversation with others. From the moment I wake up and say good morning to my partner, I enter into almost hourly context switching – different people, different problems, different conversations. Then, when evening descends, it’s back to dinner-table conversations with loved ones before a final good night and preparing for doing it all over again tomorrow.

As my day job has progressed from maker to manager, the way I split my time (and the resulting way my attention has had to adapt) has not been optimal for the art practice or deep thinking. In the last few years, alone-days have evolved as a circuit-breaker to try to help me adapt to straddling the art and non-art world which I inhabit. They are a stand-in for what I’ve lost in the process of ‘advancing’ my software design career – solitude.

It’s not a very creative term for it, but alone days are literally that – an entire day that I spend alone and disconnected from technology. Armed with a simple pen, notebook and perhaps a magazine or novel, alone days provide an immediate and short-lived space to let the mind wander. They are days that involve me reflecting on and synthesising the last few months of focus and effort. What did I learn? What did I enjoy? What should I try to avoid repeating? What should I do more of? They are critical not only to my mental health, but for re-focusing my attention on what’s important for the coming few months. Without these alone days, it’s easy to drift; to become opportunistic rather than intentional about how I spend my one, precious, unrecoverable resource – time.

In a world that is shouting endless slogans, truths and non-truths, one where media companies and individuals are constantly vying for and trying to commercialise my attention, alone-days have become my defence mechanism. I don’t know if it’ll be sustainable or, as the world continues to hyperbolise and intensify it’s demand on my attention, I’ll need more of them. But, right now, they actively create a space for that ever-elusive state of silence. It’s only through quieting the world that I can start to hear the thoughts that are charging through my own mind – it turns out that, for the artist, they’re the most important ones. It’s the voice that others want from us and are too busy to listen to for themselves.

It happens a lot. I get home from work and I can’t muster the energy to sketch. “What’s the point?” I tell myself, “I don’t have a project on right now and the idea of trying to ‘invent’ after I’ve been in deep problem-solving mode all day just seems too much.” But sketching seems to be a bit like exercise. Going for a run (or any exercise) sounds like a horrible idea before I do it, but I’ve never returned from a run and thought, “that was a waste of time.”

Our brains are inherently geared to conserve energy – so whether it’s sketching or running, it’ll do almost anything to get out of it. But, where exercise has an immediate payoff, I never quite know when sketching will pay off – the only thing I do know is that it always does.

Here’s just one example. Four years ago, I created a set of images that, at the time, was nothing but ‘fun’ – I created the images because I felt like it. And now, four years later, I can see how that moment of ‘fun’, sketching something ‘for nothing’ has subtly but absolutely influenced what I draw, how I draw it, what I notice in the world, and, more surprisingly, a paid contract.

A paid contract was never the goal. And most of my creative ‘play’ doesn’t end up like that. In fact, most of it feels like it goes nowhere. But, after a continued practice, years in the making, I know that sometime, somewhere, that creative will pay itself back, and I may not even notice.

Am I producing ‘art’ when I’m illustrating a picture book? Well, it depends on how and, more importantly, when you look at it.

I’m slowly starting to come to understand the purpose of art in my life. And if you’ve read almost any other journal article I’ve written over the last couple of years, you’ll see that, for me, the purpose of my art practice is to help me answer questions. Queen Celine explored what happens when you block the free movement of people – who wins and who loses? Eric helped me explore what it would take if you were driven enough to live the life you wanted to live, even if society put up all the roadblocks to stop you. I’m working on stories now that try to answer questions like what value does anxiety play for survival, or what if there’s a way to see ourselves intrinsically linked to nature and not separate from it?

Picture books are a funny medium because, for me, these stories (and books) begin as art in the truest sense. Eric, Queen Celine, and the other characters and worlds I’ve invented are stages where I can play out scenarios that are bothering me or that I’m curious about. The act of drawing and writing these things help me work out what I really think. As isolated thought experiments, they really do work. But then, a publisher comes along and wants to share it.

It’s at the point of sharing it, that moment of the ‘contract’ and ‘the publishing deal’ where the art is replaced with something else; I suspect it becomes about ‘design.’ The need to consider the experience of the reader (or many readers, hopefully) and ensuring you’re communicating a clear and concise message. During the creation of art, the audience is of one – the artist. But as soon as that message needs to scale, and commercial collaborators are interested in a profit, the audience changes. Now, in the context of a publishing deal, even though that original thought experiment may have answered my question or helped me clarify what I think, the priority is the reader, not the artist. So, naturally, things need tweaking.

This transition from art to design isn’t a bad thing, in fact, it’s 100% necessary if I want my question presented to a broader audience. The editors I’ve worked with over the years have been critical in taking the tangle from out of my head and straightening it out on a page for others to consume. My way isn’t the only way to answer or explore a question, so getting someone else’s take is critical in the process of further refining what I feel and think about a problem. The act of book-making helps me answer a different question – How else could I explore the answer to these questions that I have.

I think it’s possible to get a little too wrapped up and emotional about a book if things start to feel as though they’re diluting the original intent, or, “I’m just rolling it out.” Understanding the subtle transition from art to design means that I can be sure I’m still maintaining a healthy art practice, and getting to the bottom of the questions that I seek to answer, whilst still telling a story that makes those answers a little more accessible to a larger audience.