Imagine the ego required to put your crap art out into the world and pretend it’s amazing as if it’s something people should notice, or care about, or the audacity of the artist to assume that someone should love it? Imagine the ego required to talk it up – to say “I made this, I think it’s excellent!” We tend to associate that sort of ego with the brash, confident, brazen artist.

But, that very same egocentricity is responsible for the opposite effect, too. We don’t often associate egocentricity with the shy, introverted maker. But, imagine being so egocentric to think that anyone would notice or would even care about your work so much that you would be embarrassed by their reaction. To think so much of yourself that you would even get a reaction at all? When people have so much stuff to draw their attention in a world hellbent on content creation, it’s pretty egocentric to hold back your work from the public eye for fear of some sort of large-scale social media-driven embarrassment. Isn’t it? What’s so special about you?

What this means is that we have two options. We can use our ego to hide from the world. We can work in private and never share what we make for fear of being noticed. Or, we can use our ego to engage with the world and share the work we make. If it’s true that, chances are, no will care anyway, then we’ve got nothing to lose. And if someone does happen to notice, then you made something that matters. You can learn from that and put it into your next work. Maybe that’s the point after all?

Being a child of the mid-80s, I was born in the midst of 30 years of consistent economic growth. At that time, and for the next 30 years, market conditions were predictable. As I was growing up, I was told that I could be anything – the world’s my oyster, reach for the stars, I’m in control of my own destiny. I thought I knew the rules. If I eat well, exercise, manage money carefully and put effort into maintaining positive relationships with family and friends, life would be fairly predictable and manageable, maybe even happy. And then something unexpected happens; my body went haywire. Even though I did all the things I was supposed to do to ‘keep it under control’, it flipped my world completely and brought into sharp relief how little control I have over my own life, even my own body.

Almost 2000 years ago, Stoic philosopher Epictetus put it like this:

“Some things are within our power, while others are not. Within our power are opinion, motivation, desire, aversion and, in a word, whatever is of our own doing; not within our power are our body, our property, reputation, office, and, in a word, whatever is not of our own doing.”

What does this mean in plain English? Well, it means there’s a very small set of things that we absolutely control and a very large set of things that we don’t.

Up until the point of my health scare, I had considered myself a pretty healthy individual. I’d exercise, eat well, do all the things that I was told would keep me healthy, and it was all based on science. But, as it turns out, those things that we’re told lead to outcomes of certainty are far from the truth. Those activities may influence an outcome, they don’t control it. Realising this was one of the hardest lessons for me to learn, but it has been transformative to all parts of my life – especially amidst a global pandemic in 2020.

When we accept that we can only influence and not control large parts of our life, it helps us focus on the agency we have as individuals and be OK when everything else ‘doesn’t go according to plan.’ Yes, I want good relationships with my friends and family, and I can do my best to make those things happen, but in the end, if someone doesn’t like me, it’s not my fault, it’s just out of my control because they themselves have lives and influences that I cannot shape.

Watercolour, funnily enough, is also a master teacher when it comes to the difference between influence and control. What one realises is that attempting to control watercolour fully is arduous work and it produces uninspiring and generally un-emotional work. But giving the medium space to run, bloom and settle on the paper with influence in just the right areas, at just the right time from the artist is when watercolour is at its best. It turns out; it’s also true of life.

The things we own, and the labour we practice so that we can own those things, can be measured across three fundamental domains of value: Use, Exchange, and Symbol/Sentiment.

1. Value of use: is when we derive benefit from the use of an object. i.e. Hammers have high use value because they help us nail things into other things in the way that other objects cannot.
2. Value of exchange: is when we derive benefit from the sale of an object. i.e. we own vintage cars in the hope that one day, we can sell them for more.
3. Value of symbol or sentiment: is when we derive benefit from the way an object makes us feel or what it says about us in society. e.g. The fashion brands we purchase are a way that many people communicate to the rest of the world about how much money they have or what sort of person they are.

Not all labour or objects have equal value across these domains, and nor should they. It’s unlikely that I will be able to sell a toothpick I just used for any more than I bought it for, but it has a high value of use for cleaning my teeth after a meal. If, however, that toothpick was George Clooney’s, the exchange *and* symbolic value is likely to be much higher.

Likewise, the same applies to labour. A nurse has incredibly high use-value because of the important function and service they perform for society, but in relative terms, they aren’t paid much and so the exchange value of that labour is relatively low.

It’s also important to recognise that objects or labour don’t have inherent or fixed value either. 20 years ago, practising law had high exchange value, but it’s now almost on par (and maybe in decline) compared to software engineering. The exchange value of books has decreased substantially as the world found other ways to share information. Interestingly, rare books are only increasing in exchange value by virtue of their scarcity.

Applying this knowledge in decision-making

Knowing these domains of value help me think more deeply about my habits of consumption and labour. They don’t inherently make things morally good or bad, but they’re just a framework to sense-check why I’m buying or not buying something, or why I’m spending my time working on this thing and not that thing.

In the case of the labour of my art practice: It has incredibly high use-value for me; it helps me sort out the tangle of emotions and thoughts that knot up over time if I don’t tend to them through writing or drawing. The output of that labour has, comparatively to my day job, very little exchange value. Yes, I make books, but designing and building software is a far superior way to spend time if what I want to optimize is the exchange of money and time. Symbolic value is an interesting one. My art practice has evolved my identity, there’s no doubt about it, even though it took about 5 years of almost daily practice to begin to feel comfortable with calling myself an ‘artist’. But it’s not the primary reason I practice art. My aim is not to be a well-known artist, it never has been. But, I fully expect that the emphasis on these domains will shift and change over time. Maybe when I’m rich and famous (lol), those paintings that I’ve created will garner higher exchange value than they do now?

Domains of value are also useful when thinking about the purchasing of art for myself. The art I acquire has very high symbolic-value. I’d be lying if I didn’t say there is pride and prestige for me in acquiring the art I love and showing it off to people when they visit. The collection and display of objects as a way to reinforce our identity is deeply human after all. But, the art I choose to hang in my home also has very high use-value. It’s on my wall, I look at it every day. It reminds me of who I am, and what I aspire to be. Right now, my art purchasing decisions aren’t based on exchange value at all. Some will say that’s a mistake, but that’s only because exchange value is a higher priority for them; which, of course, has it’s own inherent symbolic value.

The domains of value that I emphasise in my life has changed and will continue to change over time. In my younger days when I had little money, exchange-value was more important – how little time could I spend working for the most amount of money? Right now, it’s a use or symbolic value that I see as more important. However it might change in the future, this model of value will be a nice way to check-in with myself and help me understand what I buy, how I spend my time, and why.

In many ways, watercolour is inconvenient. I know that if I went digital with my art, things would be easier for me. I’d be able to expand my client base. I’d be able to work from anywhere rather than be constrained to my studio. I’d be able to correct any mistake, remove any blemish. It would also be way cheaper for me—no more expensive brushes and paints and papers that need replenishing every few months.

If I went digital, it would be better for publishers, too. There would be no artwork to post or insure. No lag in time for sending things off to scanners or colour-balancing images when they returned. There would be more space in their office because they wouldn’t need to store my work for over a year before they then have to spend more money to send it back to me. There would be more space in mine, too.

In a world that increasingly values cheaper, easier, faster, and more convenient, watercolour isn’t the ‘smart choice’ in which to ground business. But, it is a unique one, and maybe that’s more important.

I used to think the word patience was a substitute for waiting. When we’re children and we want our Christmas presents, we’re told to be patient. When we’re demanding dessert earlier than usual, that word again – patience. We can’t wait to grow up, can’t wait for our next birthday party, can’t wait for our friends to come over. It’s no surprise then that we equate waiting with patience as we approach adulthood.

But patience, as I’ve learned, is something a little different. It’s not just waiting. It’s not just anticipating or looking forward to something, either. Patience involves a curation of the inner self. A change of viewpoint. The growth of a perspective on the world that isn’t just sitting on our butts and ‘waiting’ for something to happen – the inevitable birthday party or Christmas present. No, patience is active.

People say watercolour is the most difficult medium but I don’t agree. I think what they really mean when they say that is that unlike oils or acrylics, watercolour requires much greater levels of patience. It’s not watercolour that’s the hard bit, it’s actively understanding ourselves as we pursue something out of reach of instant gratification.

When I reflect on what taught me patience, I can’t help but come to the moment I begun watercolour. With oils and acrylics, it’s possible to paint all day. I mean, physically put brush to canvas as much as you like. But to achieve beautiful watercolour, it’s the moments between when the brush and canvas come together that are important. Watercolour, above all mediums, requires time; time for the paint to settle into the fibres of the paper, time for the heat of the room to evaporate just-enough water so that the next stroke can be placed, time for the pigment to settle evenly or unevenly as gravity decides. Those in-between moments involve more than just waiting. They are shaped by the teleological pursuit of a glowing result. There is constant inner-cultivation and reflection that grows the more I paint with watercolour. It leads to an active acceptance that, in life, some things cannot leapfrog, or fast-forward through that universal vector of time. It creates an awareness of all things physical.

There’s no doubt in my mind that patience is not passive. It’s different from sitting at the bus-stop without getting frustrated that the bus has not yet arrived, even though it’s 20 minutes behind schedule. Sitting at that bus stop, day after day, will not make one a more patient person. Patience requires the active and persistent observation of oneself and one’s place in the world. It’s not simply about waiting for something to happen, it’s about a journey to the acceptance of the fact that we are not always in control, that we can’t have that thing right now, and that it’s OK.

Over the years, I’ve found it’s important to have two streams of work. Let’s call them Practice and Performance.

Practice is the private stuff – The stuff nobody sees. It’s just for me. It’s the core of ‘art’ i.e. a way for me to engage with the world and understand what I think through the act of making stuff. It might be painting, drawing, poetry, sculpture, or music. The Practice is the essential building blocks for the stuff that the world eventually does get to see. I don’t have to compromise in Practice because it’s just for me. There’s no negotiation, no collaboration, most often, there’s no goal. It’s at once heart-wrenching as it is heart-warming. It requires so much energy, but also gives a lot of energy back to me.

Performance is the public stuff. The stuff that requires collaboration, negotiation, compromise. It’s still fun, but it begins with a purpose. It’s not just for me. It’s a problem I’m trying to solve for someone else. There’s a reader (or viewer) now. A publisher. An editor. I’m trying to convey a message. Achieve a goal. It’s a telic pursuit, not an atelic one.

Neither is better or worse as both are critical to growing as an artist and being able to fund the journey along the way. But, in this age of social media, where the algorithms are driving us to post more and more lest we be forgotten, it’s harder and harder to keep the sanctity of the private practice, the stuff that really matters. We are urged to blur the lines: share ‘works in progress’, reveal what’s going on behind the scenes. We’re told that we get the best engagement that way, the bigger follower count, we’re ‘building our audience,’ which, they tell us, will make us more money.

But the privacy that is essential to any practice is the stuff that feeds the artist’s soul. Without that soul food, there is no performance or, even worse, everything becomes performance. when that happens, well, we’ve no longer got a space to answer questions just for us, what we end up with is just constant anxiety about the follower count and no room to grow.

When I think about tools of the trade, I used to think about physical tools: brushes, pens, paints, paper and so on. Buy the best you can afford, look after them well, and they’ll last you a long time. But what I’ve come to realise is that there’s another set of tools of the trade that we don’t often talk about: the body and the mind.

First, the body

Drawing pictures, whilst enjoyable, is a surprisingly physical trade. In my case, that physical labour isn’t what we come to think of when we say physical labour. My trade doesn’t use large motor skills to lift heavy loads. Instead, it uses very fine ones. In the past, I’ve found myself sitting for 8-12 hours a day, lost in flow, with nothing to eat or drink, only to emerge from it feeling tired, hungry, and completely physically drained. I generally focus on an image that’s no more than 60cm from my eyes, and even then, only on a radius of about 20cm at a time. I’ve looked at my eyeballs in the mirror after one of these big flow sessions, and I can see the blood that’s been directed toward controlling my iris and eye-muscles whilst I paint. I can see the twitching in my eyelids sometimes. It’s just like finishing a weight-lifting session at the gym but on a micro-scale.

It’s not just my eyes that are affected by this depth of focus. My back is required to hold a sustained posture in front of the drawing board for long periods of time; a bit like a ballerina who must hold their posture perfectly for the performance, smiling the whole time.

Second, the mind

The physical strain on the body is one thing, but the invention of any intellectual work requires a well-trained mind, too. Yes, there’s a lot to be said for the natural ‘strength’ of some writers or illustrators, but untrained strength will only get you so far. To really succeed, the brain needs the creative fuel required for lateral thinking, humour, sensitivity, romance, excitement – all on demand. It needs to adjust to the anguish, despair and difficulty of creating anything from scratch, as well as the elation that happens when things click into place so that I’m able to judge the good work from the rubbish.

How to looking after the tools of the trade

My practice has evolved from the early days of illustrating on an Ikea dining table with a bit of 2×4 to turn my drawing board into something with a slight angle. Some of them have been physical changes (e.g. I created my own desktop easel and purchased a standing desk), but many of the changes I’ve made have been behavioural ones.

For the body, I’ve learned to work in approx. 90-minute increments, setting a timer if I need to. It means I can look out into the distance to re-focus my eyes on something at regular intervals, letting all those tiny muscles controlling my iris have a break. I’ve taken to pilates and yoga exercises every second day or so to make sure I exercise a range of movement throughout my whole body. I take skip-rope breaks to get the blood moving through my body.

For the mind, I read daily: novels, poetry, comics, and magazines like The New Philosopher. Novels expose me to rich prose. Poetry exposes me to abstract thinking and imagery through words. Comics and movies teach me visual storytelling techniques. Magazines about philosophy constant bring me new ways to view the world. I also make sure I’ve got scheduled time for mindless, repetitive tasks like walking or cycling. I’ve a rule that there are no podcasts allowed in those times. These are completely and utterly not negotiable for me right now. They’re sharpening the very tools I need to do the best story-telling work and invention that I can.

It’s obvious when I say it out loud, but like the physical tools that need cleaning, washing, and care, the body and mind work better if we look after them properly. Without them all working together, making anything becomes impossible.

When I began art-making, the advice I found on the internet was “buy the best you can afford.” So I did. I bought expensive paper, expensive brushes, expensive paint. But, at first, a curious thing happened – I just didn’t use them. Why? Because I was scared of making a mistake. What if I waste a $30 piece of paper? What if I damaged a tiny, $70 brush? What if, after spending $300 on paint, it turns out I’ve bought the wrong ones?

Sometimes, working with less expensive materials is all you need to start creating. Art-making is already laden with the fear of failure; could we be making it worse by encouraging people to buy ‘the best they can afford’? I’ve learned that I paint a lot more if I’m not using canvases but cheap plywood from Bunnings. I buy large sheets of it for about $15, cut it up at home and get about 6 or 7 decent sized painting surfaces. What I make wont’ be worthy of galleries, but chances are it won’t be anyway because I’m only starting to learn. Instead, I’m painting, and when it comes down to it, that’s the most important thing and the hardest part.

If the choice is between finishing something, or perfecting it, done wins. Every time. Because done invites feedback, and feedback helps me improve. Once we admit to ourselves that perfect is impossible, all we’ve got left is done. And if it’s true that we learn from what we do, then the more we do, the more we learn. Getting to done, not perfect, then, is the fastest way to improve.

Some of my favourite works of art are difficult to describe. It’s not that they’re technically excellent (although it’s often true that they are). And it’s not that they’re my favourite colours, or subject, either. When I look at some of my favourite works of art, what’s common to all is that there’s a truth in them. A way that they’ve peeled back the veil of trained attention that exists between me and the world and shown me something as it actually is. It reminds me of this passage from Douglas Adams’ Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency.

“Sir Isaac Newton, renowned inventor of the milled-edge coin and the catflap!”
“The what?” said Richard.
“The catflap! A device of the utmost cunning, perspicuity and invention. It is a door within a door, you see, a …”
“Yes,” said Richard, “there was also the small matter of gravity.”
“Gravity,” said Dirk with a slightly dismissed shrug, “yes, there was that as well, I suppose. Though that, of course, was merely a discovery. It was there to be discovered.” … “You see?” he said dropping his cigarette butt, “They even keep it on at weekends. Someone was bound to notice sooner or later.”

The idea that ‘gravity was there to be discovered‘ sits with me all the time.

From a very early age, our attention is honed. From the moment a teacher or parent says to us, “Sit up straight and look at me,” we’re being taught to focus. And focus is useful for so many reasons. But, of course, it also means we miss certain things in the world, like the glaringly obvious gorilla. When our attention is trained on something, the truth of the world as it really is goes missing.

For me, art has become a journey of truth-seeking. To see through the veil of focus and attention to something larger, different, on a grander scale. Like Newton who ‘discovered’ gravity – a thing that was ‘even kept on at weekends’ but took us 1600 or so years to ‘see’ – art making is about searching for the world as it really is, not simply representing a world we think exists.