Pictures in books have a problem. Our education system is currently designed to favour words over pictures. Babies begin with pictures because pictures are ‘easy’. They are intuitive and images are the primary way we experience the world before we are taught the symbols and marks that constitute the written word.

By the time a child is a toddler, pictures in books are paired with words, about 50/50. Soon after that, children begin reading books that have more words than pictures until, having fully grasped the written language, they begin to read stories without pictures–100% words. Having been educated in this way, a person can’t be blamed for assuming ‘pictures are for kids.’

I recently had an interaction with a grandfather in a bookstore who was looking for a book for their ‘very smart 7-year old grandchild.’ I suggested a story primarily driven by pictures but with big themes. He leafed through the book and said, ‘my granddaughter is too smart for this, it doesn’t have enough words.’ Which, of course, begs the question – how many words makes a smart book?

And yet, this same person would likely take their very smart 7-year old grandchild to an art gallery. They would likely gaze upon the works of Van Gogh, Cezanne, or Matisse. They would likely think this experience was important, intelligent and an objective good for their grandchild.

But, paintings are pictures without words. Why stand in front of a piece of canvas from hundreds of years ago, dabbed with colour? Shouldn’t that same child who was too-smart for a picture-driven story in a book also be too smart for a Van Gogh?

Paint on a canvas, like pictures in a book, provoke feeling and tell a story; they stimulate an emotional intelligence and also an intellectual one. But, like with most technology, the Overton Window of the medium will always change. The important thing is that we generate enough diversity across the arts to help people find their way to growing both of those parts of themselves as only the best art can do.

I heard this from a bookseller once: when people come into the shop and ask for a recommendation – a good book – what they’re really asking is, “Does it finish well?”

When something finishes well, it comes to a conclusion. It doesn’t just mean a ‘happy’ ending but rather that the reader walks away with a sense of accomplishment – they learned, they enjoyed, they felt something, they changed.

As a writer, it’s often tempting to try something different, something ‘edgy’ or ‘unusual’ like leaving the audience to decide their own ending. But, it seems, that isn’t want the vast majority want. We want something to finish, and finish well.

Many of the decisions I’ve made in the past have been driven by the sunk-cost fallacy; choosing to continually invest in something because I’ve invested so much in it already instead of whether or not the benefits of further investment will be worth it.

But, this is where it’s useful to remember the old Japanese proverb: When you’re on the wrong train, get off at the next stop. The longer you wait, the more expensive the return trip is.

The tricky part is working out if you’re really on the wrong train and, to know that, you need to know which train you’re supposed to be on and, to know that, one needs to know one’s self.

If someone had asked me 10 years ago where I’d think I’d be in my picture book career today, I’d probably have given them an answer and I’d probably have been wrong. I know I would not have said:

• I will feel like a more authentic version of myself.
• I will have more self-belief than self-doubt (on most days).
• I will have stopped working a day job for a while to focus on a personal project only because I believe in it.
• I will be more confident in my ability to draw almost anything (given enough time).

And yet, today, all these things are true.

Back then I probably would’ve tried to estimate how many books I’d have. Or how many awards I’d won? Maybe how many countries and translations, if any, I would have of my work? I probably would’ve tried to put a number on royalties or salary. For me, that would’ve been success.

Quantitative values give us a feeling of clarity; a mirage of certainty and solidity. If I can put a number on something, I can objectively compare that with others and, based on that comparison, I can more easily judge my ‘progress’: How many books do I have compared to another illustrator? How many followers? How many awards? Am I doing better or worse than my peers?

Of course, the problem with comparisons like this is that they provide a false yardstick for progress when it comes to what matters in an art practice. Quantitative comparisons are fundamentally market metrics. They don’t measure art progress, they measure commerce or ‘business’ effectiveness.

In art making, the only competition is oneself so the metrics need only relate to a previous version of yourself? How does my ‘today-me’ compare to ‘yesterday-me’? I can’t put a number on that but it also means I’m not ‘behind where I should be’, I just am where I am. And that’s far more rewarding.

There’s plenty advice on the internet about how to ‘improve’ (make more and better work) as an artist. How to learn to draw using perspective. How to create more interesting compositions. How to get better at colour theory. How to find the right art books to read. How to beat creative block. How to earn a living wage from your work.

But, I’ve not seen what I now know to be true; that to improve in anything, one must get actively rest. One needs time with other humans. One needs exercise. One needs to eat well. One needs proper sleep.

Sure, I could sit at my desk for 12 hours a day and I’d probably complete more pages of my graphic novel than if I sat there for 10 hours. But page count isn’t everything because the work would suffer; a tired brain, body, back, and hands won’t draw or write as well. If I am starved of social interaction, I lose perspective on the world. A poor diet fundamentally prohibits my body’s ability to function which, in turn, can simply mean I physically can’t draw today because I’m sick.

And yes, there needs to be a balance. Not everyone needs people all the time; solitude is also necessary. And I’m not talking about spending hours not working when one could be working, what I’m talking about isn’t ‘slacking off’, it’s cultivating a habit of healthy balance; active rest.

This stuff ‘around’ what we call the ‘craft’ – isn’t optional, it’s necessary. I’ll make better progress for longer if I prioritise the physiological and psychological necessities of my body. Sustainability of the practise is also part of the practise. It’s all in service of the work.

Wouldn’t golf be easier if we just picked up the little white ball, walked 400 yards and dropped it in the hole without hitting it with small sticks? Wouldn’t tennis be easier without a net in the middle? Why run an ultra-marathon when you could just walk or drive from A to B? Why spend years learning to play piano when you could just type a prompt and generate piano music at the click of a button? Why spend 9 months of my life making a graphic novel that no one will publish or anyone but a few people in my inner circle will ever read?

Maybe because ‘efficiency’ doesn’t always matter. Maybe because it’s fun. We have, as a species, for a very long time voluntarily attempted to overcome unnecessary obstacles (as Bernard Suits so eloquently put it).

In a market context, inefficiency is to be removed at all costs. They reward cheaper & faster. In a market, unnecessary obstacles are a problem to be solved. In a market, there is no tennis, or golf, or piano playing, and ultra-marathons have no value.

If we want evidence of the universality of our love for voluntarily overcoming unnecessary obstacles, we need only look to amateur play in every country and place on earth – the local sports clubs, chess clubs, board games clubs, music groups and yes, even artists.

Out beyond the market, we are happy. We play.

It’s easy to give a client what they want. Ask and they’ll tell you. They’ll give you the dimensions, the budget, the timeline. They’ll tell you which colours they like or don’t like; which ones are ‘right’. They’ll tell you what your work should be about and when it’s achieving that or not. If it’s wrong, it’s easy to fix. Just do another version, nudge it closer to what the client wants until they’re satisfied.

Much more difficult is the work one does for oneself. When there is no one to tell you what is working or not working, what’s right and what’s wrong. When no one tells you the dimensions, or instructs how much time you’re supposed to spend on, how much money you’re supposed to use to make it. It’s difficult to know when the work you made for yourself is done – it’s all on you. It’s also the best type of work.

The problem with participating in any race to the bottom is that you end up there.

Complex, detailed work takes time, attention, energy and labour. When we see something that is complex, we tend to be able to recognise it as such, even if we know nothing about it. Aeroplanes, computers, grand buildings are all amazing feats of human ingenuity even though most of us don’t have a clue about how these things actually work. We admire the person or people who spent all that time, effort, attention and money on making such a complex thing.

Simplicity, on the other hand, also takes time, attention, energy and labour. But, the effort, restraint, and experience required to know how to reduce, declutter, and clarify is often greater than that required to add, enhance, and complicate. Not always, but quite often. A master-crafted knife, air-conditioning you don’t think about unless it’s broken or simple on/off light switch. When a sauce is reduced, there is less of it, but the flavours are intensified.

I enjoy complexity, but I love simplicity.

Did you see that video with the cat doing the thing with the food? Or how about that waterskier who crash landed? Or what about that snow monkey in Japan who stole the phone and took it in the thermal spring with them? Or how about the life hack for growing your own cactus? Or that interview where someone got owned?

The online world is increasingly saturated with bite-sized nuggets of attention-grabbing triviality. And if that trough is the basis for our intellectual diet, it doesn’t seem to bode well for the things I value most – deep thought, detailed work, and nuance.

So, I’ve stopped feeding from the trough and, I have to say, it’s taken a while, but my brain is changing back: my attention is more focussed, I can read longer, think more deeply, and most importantly, the art I’m making is feeling more and more like me. No regrets.