Growing up, I was taught that big was beautiful; that it would be an achievement to run a big business, make large amounts of money, buy a big house (most likely through a big mortgage), and, generally, live a big (and therefore, important) life. There have been very few people in my life, if any, who have encouraged me to ‘think small’.

But what I’ve learned is that small is efficient, and efficiency is beautiful. When you’re small, it’s easy to change and adapt when something unexpected happens. Most ‘big’ businesses go under when they’re disrupted by something or someone smaller who is able to move more quickly and respond to a changing market. When you don’t have a lot of money, you tend to use it more wisely (i.e. waste less of it) than someone with ‘plenty to spare’. And when you live in a small house, it saves you money in heating and cooling, repair and maintenance.

I’m starting to think that thinking small might be a better way.

I don’t know about other artists, but the ones I know are looking for big – a big audience or a high price tag for their work. That’s what success looks like. I started off that way, too.

But then I got to thinking – what does it mean if I make my art and ‘only’ one or two people see it, not hundreds. Was it still a ‘success’? Am I less of an artist because if my audience remains small?

No matter which way I look at it, I was making work before people were interested, and I’ll continue to make work after. The original need to make art wasn’t driven by a big commercial outcome or audience, it was driven by an interior need – to seek answers to questions I had both of the world, and more importantly, myself.

Not everyone is (or will be) interested in what I make, and that’s OK. In fact, it’s helpful, because I also can’t scale me. I can only do X books a year, or paint Y paintings. Smallness is baked into the artist’s way of producing the work.

When there have been attempts by some to scale that inherit smallness – through merchandising or hiring employees to paint/draw their way – history seems to point to a growing perception of inauthenticity in the work, even though it may have begun in the right place. Through saturating a market with one’s work, it ends up diluting it. “Household names” like Garfield & Peanuts are all both examples of this from the comics world. Sure, they have attained ‘global status and reach’, but does the link from merchandise to engagement with the original work really not change the original work? I doubt it.

The thing with a capitalist culture that celebrates scale is that, quite oddly, it also celebrates scarcity. Scarcity creates value, too, and it seems to me, that for art, small can be beautiful.

Things are getting faster. No, I don’t mean the pace the world is moving faster, although that’s true, too. What I mean is that I’m getting faster, and I almost didn’t notice.

Over the weekend, I did some rough illustrations for a picture book. In the past, those illustrations would’ve taken a few days. Now? They take one. And the drawings, in my opinion, are better quality than they were when I first began in 2016.

I also used to wonder how the watercolour masters I admire – Joseph Zbukvic, Alvaro Castagnet, and Amanda Hyatt – could work the way they do; such a fine and intimate understanding of how much water is on the paper and how much paint is on the brush.

But now, I’m noticing that in myself, too. I don’t need to touch brush to page to know there’s too much water in it, I can tell by the weight of it in my hand. That’s not a sensitivity I set out to achieve.

What school never taught me about learning is that it’s a multi-sensory experience. That it doesn’t need to have an ‘intellectual’ or ‘intentional’ focus. Yes, sure, it’s important to have goals and criteria to help us shape a path and define a structure to attain them. But, there’s another type of learning, ‘osmotic’ learning, where we learn not through goals and criteria, but practice and consistency.

I never created a 5-step plan to ‘achieve better weight sensitivity to the water in my brush’. Never once did it cross my mind that I could go from drawing roughs over a few weeks to roughs in a day, and if I never imagined it I certainly didn’t design my learning path to achieve. Yet, both of these things have happened.

How did I notice these things? Well, one thing I’ve always had is planned time for reflection. Blocks of time where I write or draw about a process or project I’ve been working on. What was fun? What worked well? What didn’t? What could I do better next time?

In the software world, this is called a ‘retrospective’. A way for a team to come together and look back on the past fortnight to see how things could be improved for the following one. Maybe out of habit, I’ve taken this process into my picture book work, and it’s revealing things I never would have seen otherwise.

I wonder how many other illustrators are missing out on seeing and feeling progress by not taking the time to reflect on what’s going well and what’s not in their practise or business? I wonder if anyone who reads this will begin doing it?

Whenever I’ve worked in a team to solve complex problems, especially in my picture book work, one thing remains true – people communicate their problems in solutions.

I’d be surprised if it hasn’t happened to other illustrators or writers, too. We receive feedback on our work and it’s often in the form of recommendations about how to fix a problem, not what the problem is. For example, “Could we change the shape of the trees in the forest to something like X, it’ll feel more ‘natural’.”

With this form of feedback, I first need to work out whether it’s direction, suggestion, or comment, before I’m able to respond in a productive way. But, there’s also another way to be productive when we receive solutions to unarticulated problems – find out what the problem is.

See, the issue with providing ‘written notes’ as feedback is that we’re limited by language. Not all of us are great writers and so feeling, meaning, and intent can slip through the cracks. I can’t remember where I read it, but the quote was, “When an editor can see something wrong, they’re almost always right. But the way they suggest to make it right is almost always wrong.”

Asking questions like, “what do you mean by natural?” or “can you explain to me why you’re feeling this way?” (the ones that have ‘why’ in it) finds the layer below the solution and, inevitably, uncovers the problem.

Once we have the problem, we can use what we do best to solve it.

No matter how much I draw, whenever I sit down to the blank page, it’s difficult. It’s difficult to get started, difficult to think about what to draw, difficult to trust in my ability to draw it and, therefore, difficult to feel like there’s any point at all. That feeling, 7 years into a professional illustration career, hasn’t gone away. I suspect it never will.

But, what I’ve learned in those 7 years is that almost everything hinges on the first mark. Not whether it’s a good or bad mark, but just a mark. If I can get to the first mark, those other questions go away and now the conversation is just between me and the page. It works even better if the first mark is with something I can’t rub out with an eraser as soon as I make it.

Why the first mark? Because it’s feedback. Sure, it might be a crap mark, but the next one will better because I won’t repeat the first one (at least not exactly the same). With a first mark, I’ve learned something. With a second one something else. And, like a fencing match, the page and I parry back and forth until suddenly, almost without noticing, I’ve filled a page of my sketchbook… and then another… and then another.

No mark-marking is ever wasted, but boy it can be difficult getting to that first one – even after seven years and counting.

I had a recent experience of posting something to Instagram that I thought was really great – humourous, empathetic, and important; the stuff I’m really proud to share. It’s been an idea sitting in an old sketchbook for years and I think I’d just been too afraid to execute it for fear of not being able to produce what I could see in my mind. Anyway, when I did and put it out in the world, I was really disappointed with the response.

In terms of ‘likes’, it performed poorly compared to other stuff I’ve posted, recently. Was it the wrong day? The wrong time of day? Was it Instagram’s algorithm? A lack of hashtags? I went into ‘analysis overdrive’ trying to work out what to do differently next time.

Then, almost 24 hours later, one of my picture book heroes, Bruce Whatley, came across it and we had one of the most meaningful exchanges I’ve had on Instagram in a really long time. Not only that, but it inspired him to go dig up an old book and share it with his audience, which resulted in even more nostalgia and conversation. No marketing guide ever asks us to measure that.

See, when I first posted the image, I was focused on the wrong thing – numbers. How many likes and how much visibility will this work receive? But, it was decidedly the wrong metric/s.

Whenever we think of ‘marketing’ we think about it in the way that social media companies have trained us to think about it – impressions, likes, clicks, conversions. We focus on the numbers. That may be meaningful for them and their business model, but that’s not the only way. There is another lens through which to judge success, a lens trained on relationships, meaningful conversation, and connections amongst one another that run far deeper than surface-level numbers.

It feels ‘riskier’ to focus on qualitative, not quantitative metrics, but if the work is good enough, it’ll cut through anyway. I don’t know about anyone else, but good qualitative metrics to leave a deeper and more lasting impression than the fleeting quantitative ones.

I used to think that my ‘style’ was defined by the materials I use. I found watercolour early and have loved it ever since. I used a small amount of pencil to sketch in line work, came up with characters that had ‘floating eyes’ and voila – that’s my style. I was, at some points, nervous about drifting from these materials for fear of losing ‘my style.’

But now, I realise that style is more than materials. Style is more akin to a ‘gaze’. A way that one looks at the world; a lens through which we consume, interpret, and then, create.

Some artists’ gaze are graphic – they see line, colour, shape vividly. They interpret this world in bright contrasts and simple forms. There is often little narrative in their work. I love this sort of work but I cannot mimic it for very long.

Other artists’ gaze are serious and brooding – even if the medium they use is not, there’s a darkness to their voice that comes through their work; a scepticism, negativity, critique. Again, I love this work, but I also find I cannot gaze upon the world like this for very long.

So, what is my gaze?

Well, there is humour, I know that for sure. It comes so naturally to me that I have to be reminded of how little humour I see in some artists’ work to know that it’s something unique. I also know now that I gaze upon the world with a veil of optimism and hope. It is, perhaps, the reason why I’ve collaborated on a number of books where the main character is a ‘grump’ but goes on the journey to be less so. Perhaps it’s better described as silliness?

I certainly interpret the world as a series of connected stories and see strong connections where others do not. This enables character to drive most of what I do. I’m still often surprised when I hear that book illustrators find that bit difficult because, to me, it’s the whole point of telling a story.

But, again, we all have slightly different gazes and there seems to be a place in the world for them all.

The freeing thing about disconnecting style from medium is that it gives me room to explore ways to express the gaze. How does my gaze come through acrylic, or coloured pencil? I’ve done some ink and watercolour recently in Herman Crab and Rosie the Rhinoceros, and I can see my gaze in them, despite the bold ink lines that weren’t there a few years. The question now is how might using different mediums alter my gaze because, surely, as one moves through life, there’s a chance that things shift?

In art marketing, we’re taught that consistency is king. “Develop your style”, “Curate your Instagram”, “People should take one look at your homepage and know exactly what you do.” But people are more complicated than that, and artists’ work even more so. So, whilst I understand where art marketers are coming from – viewing the work as something to be purchased by a consumer – I can’t help but think the value of art isn’t how much or how quickly you can sell a painting but rather a way to find out who we were, are now, and who we might become.

How much money does one ask for in exchange for a painting? $50? $100? $5000? And then I realised I’ve been asking the wrong question.

By the time my art is ready to sell, I’ve already won. The process of working through the art – discovering an answer to a question that kicked off the need to create the piece in the first place – is the reward. The final piece is kind of a secondary benefit. The question isn’t what is worth, the question is what did I learn?

So, why does the sale price of the piece still feel me with anxiety? Is it because if I price it too high, I’ll look arrogant? If I price it too low, I’ll be percieved as undervaluing it? Especially when we start to ‘compare the market’, or in other words, understand what people are paying for ‘similar pieces’.

But what’s similar about 2 different pieces of art from two different artists? The materials? The size? The complexity of the work or the time it took to complete? Even if these were exactly the same in material terms, should they cost the same? How does one value sentimentality or the meaning of the process to the individual artist? How does one value the ‘reputation’ of the artist? Some things don’t map easily to money – art is one of them – but we do it anyway.

Like most human/object relationships, the value of any one piece of art is fundamentally an individual choice. There is no set ‘commodity’ price for art, only averages. We attempt to map mental models of consumer goods around them – oil painting ‘last longer’ therefore are generall worth more – but it’s still all just theatre.

In the end, every artist will have their reasons for pricing their art a particular way, and every buyer will have their reasons for buying it. As long as those are clear, then any time art is made or sold, for whatever price, it’s worth it.

I’ve been struggling to return to mindless doodling and writing; that space of pure invention; to use the physical act of mark-making to explore what I’m thinking and feeling.

I haven’t quite worked out what it is, but I think ‘publishing’, as a goal, has begun to dominate my thinking. Who will buy it? Who will be interested? What market is this for? These questions are creating barriers – second-guessing, fear of losing touch, a lack of confidence.

Over the years, I’ve known many emerging and unpublished authors describe the same questions and feelings. They all boil down to the same ultimate question, “What’s the point of making art?” And, even though I answered this for myself almost 4 years ago, it’s still difficult to prioritise it when the rest of the world is competing for my attention in so many different ways.

I used to think that self-confidence and motivation were beginner’s problems. But, as it turns out, no matter how many books are published, or awards won, this question still emerges in any artist’s mind at different stages in their career. Well, it’s been my experience, anyway.

And now that I know this is true, I have a couple of options.

I can persist with trying to answer the unsolvable questions – who will buy it, who will be interested, what market is this for – before I put pen to paper. This probably means that days, weeks, or months go by without anything physical to show for all the thinking and worrying that’s been going on.

The other option is just to put pen to paper and then worry about the rest later. By visualising something (or, anything), it’s at least a way of recording all the failures along the way. As any good scientist knows, even a negative result is still a positive one.

Visual art is complex. We make hundreds of tiny decisions to produce a single piece. What should I draw? How should I draw it? What materials do I use? How big should it be? What orientation is best? Do I use line? Form? Colour? What’s the composition? The list goes on. It can often be highly stressful and overwhelming sometimes, so much so that we simply don’t do anything – paralyzed by the fear of making a bad choice within that myriad of options. Of course, the opposite is also true, when I get over those first hurdles and answer a few of those questions, making art is one of the most relaxing and enjoyable ways to spend my time.

I’ve just returned from holidays – a week in the Daintree Rainforest. And, whilst I draw ‘for work’ I also like to ‘draw to relax’. There is, however, a lot to draw in Far North Queensland. Beaches, dense rainforest, waterholes, mammals, insects, food, and people enjoying their own holiday. Deciding which materials to take raise the anxiety levels even before we’ve left. And then there’s the choices we make while we’re there.

But, I discovered something on this most recent trip that I haven’t done out in the field before – constraints. Some of my favourite sketches (and most relaxing moments) were when I was sketching with a single ink brush on cheap paper. It removed the number of decisions I needed to make about materials and colour, and reduced the risk of me ‘making a crap drawing with ‘expensive’ stuff. It was, in a single word – freeing.

And so, I’ve decided to bring this practice home. To keep things simple and not get distracted or overwhelmed by all the ways to create images. Sometimes, all you need is a pencil and some scrap paper. Armed with those, and an imagination, the possibilities are still limitless, we just get to worry less.

I’m running out of room. Room to store stuff, room to experiment with new materials, room to explore new ideas. I don’t know whether it’s because we’re working from home now? Or having spent many years in a pandemic? But things are feeling… ‘constrained’.

Yet, I say that and think – but we’ve got a 3 br house; one we never thought we could ever afford. We have a separate study/office – one that, when the day’s done, we can close the door and disconnect. We’re not working from a kitchen bench or a desk set up in the lounge room or bedroom like some of my friends.

Maybe it’s not about the physical amount of space, then; maybe it’s about how it’s being used? A fancy new monitor and electronics sit intermingled with my watercolours. I’m finding that I’m using coloured pencils joyously but am less inclined to use wet media like watercolour and ink in the same place as my shiny new 4k monitor or laptop.

Maybe, instead of more room, what I need is a new routine? To rethink the space I inhabit throughout the week and tweak it, cleverly, to unlock my ability to create freely again. I wonder if it’s the same for others, too.