As an artist, it’s easy to think you’re selling art, right? That thing you spent hours or months slaving away at. That final piece that someone will hang on their wall in their home and call their own? The layers of paint, expertly placed just so. It’s taken years of experience to get to this point. The point when you can call yourself an artist?

But I’m not sure that artists are selling only the final piece. See, I’m starting to think that there are two types of buyers. I don’t know what to call them but here’s what characterises the difference.

Two types of buyers

The first buyer is the one who’s buying the commodity. The thing that looks nice. The thing that matches their rug, or their couch, or their child’s space-themed nursery. They’re the sort of buyer who is happy to pay you for it, but, if they can get it cheaper elsewhere, they will. They’re the type of buyer who feels that, should Target or K-Mart steal your work from Instagram and mass-produce it, there’s no difference. It still matches their rug.

The second type of buyer is the one who purchases the story. Sure, they like the final piece. It probably still matches their rug, or couch, or their child’s space-themed nursery. But, they’re the sort of buyer for whom originality matters. Where mass-production somehow devalues the piece. These buyers are willing to pay more (although every buyer is still price-sensitive). And while it may seem that, even to the buyer themselves, they are buying the art, what they’re actually buying is more than that. They’re purchasing a license to tell your story.

Buying stories

When both buyers hang your art above their couch, the surface-level experience is mostly the same. Friends come over for a dinner party and applaud both buyers on their stylish curation and expert taste in interior design, “Wow, you’ve got such great taste,” they say. But it’s at this point where the similarities stop; the buyer must now respond to their friends’ gushing kindness.

The first buyer responds with gratitude and then overwhelming excitement for the deal they got. “Can you believe I got this from K-Mart for just $15?” They say. “Some artist is trying to sell these on Instagram for like $300!” And, it follows that their friends are stunned by the bargain and heap congratulations on this buyer for their bargain-hunting prowess.

The second buyer, however, responds quite differently. They paid the $300 price tag, direct from the artist, and they still feel as though they have a deal. That’s because they’ve bought something quite different. Yes, they’ve still got the final piece. But, instead of focussing on the cost, they spend 15 minutes sharing a story of making a connection. They purchased an original directly from the artist, they say. They browsed the artist’s site for months as they saved to buy this specific piece. They emailed the artist back and forth and built a personal relationship with them. They might even call them ‘an artist friend they know’ now. They talk about how this piece was created en-plein air on the artist’s recent travels to Croatia. They followed the progress of the painting on Instagram. They know that it, in fact, took over 300 hours of work, 3 months to complete, and while the artist was doing so, they were incredibly nervous about how it was progressing. There’s online evidence to share with their friends.

The story of the second buyer is rich. It’s full of emotion, human connection, struggle and achievement. It’s as unique as the painting itself. Their friends are on tenterhooks; they pick up their phones and follow the artist on their social media channel of choice. Through association, they feel they know you already. Because of the story that the second buyer has purchased, the piece maintains an exquisite central presence in their home for many years. When the couch is no longer in fashion, it’s not the painting that goes, but the new couch is selected to match the painting. The story gets told and re-told. Again and again, as new friends and connections are made. The artist gains more attention and admiration. One friend contacts the artist directly, “You did this for my friend, I’d like something similar too.” Which is code for, “Can I have a story like that?”

Meanwhile, as time passes, the first buyer tires of the painted reproduction they bought from K-Mart. Once out of fashion, it loses its value. The story of the ‘bargain buy’ is one that everyone has experienced, and since the reproduction was reduced not long after it was purchased (because technology continues to make it possible to make more of them for less), now $15 seems expensive. When the first buyer looks upon their piece, they don’t feel elation or deep emotional connection. The feeling changes to one of negativity and ‘being screwed over yet again’. Art is fickle, the first buyer thinks. The mass-produced reproduction is left out for hard-rubbish, bitterly disposed of. It’s replaced with something else of equal or lesser value but at least it’s on trend, and still probably a bargain.

David and Goliath

As an artist, you can feel powerless when you’re facing the beasts of scale and mass-production of chain stores who can produce or reproduce popular art at a cost at which you cannot compete. But that’s only if you’re viewing your own art through the same lens as buyer one, just a painting. You’re comparing apples with apples.

But see, when you make your art, it’s not about apples vs apples. You’ve got something incomparable – the story behind your art. The process, the pain, the hardship, the excitement. There are buyers out there who value these things. Yes, they’re buying your final piece, but they’re also purchasing your story. They’re purchasing connection. And, in a world where we’re all starting to feel increasingly disconnected, the value of this connection that we make through art is becoming increasingly sought after. People are buying followers, why wouldn’t they also be buying relationships with artists?

Are you selling art or stories?

In the end, this comes down to how you’re selling your art. And how you’re selling your art comes down to what you think you’re selling. Are you selling your story? The story of how the work came to be? Are you putting in the work to show people your process? Are you giving them an inside look into a world that feels so unattainable for so many; people who feel they can’t produce what you can?

If not, are you surprised to learn that buyers will choose the cheap K-Mart reproduction over the single image you upload? If you’re not sharing the story, all you’ve got is an image that has no context or background. No story. If the image is everything, K-Mart will do.

So, which buyer do you want and what are you doing about it?

I have a confession to make – I’ve never suffered from creative block. What’s my secret? I think it’s acknowledging that creative block doesn’t exist. “What?!” I hear you say. Please, bear with me.

One of my favourite thinkers is Seth Godin. He’s been running a blog for years and posts Every. Single. Day. They aren’t long posts, in fact, they’re super short and snappy, but the ideas within them are deeply profound. Well, at least to me. It’s fair to say he’s been a significant influence on the way I approach my artistic work. To say he’s ‘changed my life’ is probably not overstating it.

In 2011, he posted an article called, “Talkers’ Block.” It’s a humorous look at why people seem to accept the notion of Writer’s Block with ease, but no one ever seems to be lost for words when they’re speaking.

He writes:

The reason we don’t get talker’s block is that we’re in the habit of talking without a lot of concern for whether or not our inane blather will come back to haunt us. Talk is cheap. Talk is ephemeral. Talk can be easily denied. […] Writer’s block isn’t hard to cure. Just write poorly. Continue to write poorly, in public, until you can write better.

At about the same time, I was reading Art & Fear: Observations On the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking, by David Bayles and Ted Orland which was making me reflect very deeply on why I ever stopped making art after high-school.

Whether it’s fate or just my habit of reading widely, the ideas from a marketer and two artists came together, and 2014 became a formative year for me. I wasn’t blocked from making art at all; it was just two stupid things: I de-prioritised art over other things, and I was full of fear of making work I was embarrassed by.

Art won’t make itself. You have to take the leap and make it real. You need to put actual strokes to actual canvas or real pencils on real paper. And yes, it’s scary. And it’s hard because our brains are wired for laziness. At the basic level of survival, if we’re safe from sabre-tooth tigers, we can rest easy. It’s much easier to sit in front of Netflix and just think about how you know you could easily make that great painting or drawing at any time. It’ll happen one day.

Fear makes its own distracting habitat

A few years ago, my evenings looked a little like this. I used to sit on the couch and watch some TV series that I was thoroughly enjoying at the time. This activity, whilst mind-numbing, wouldn’t occupy all my brain space. While I was watching, my attention would drift, and I was able to dream up an image, or a character, or a landscape that I could be painting instead. At that time, thinking about it was enough. It satisfied me. I knew I could actually DO it if I really wanted to. But there’s only an hour or so at night after work and dinner and then it’s bed-time. The last thing I wanted to do was get all my art supplies out. By the time I did that, then there’d only be 30 mins left before bed and that wasn’t nearly enough time to make art.

There’s no creative block hiding in the cupboard

Then, one day, by reading Art and Fear and Seth Godin’s blog in close succession, I was inspired to act. I actively decided to change a habit.

On Sunday night, I got my art supplies out. Just a notebook and a pencil and eraser. It took all of 5 minutes (not the 30 minutes I imagined it would). I put these art supplies right by the couch where I knew I sat each night after dinner. On Monday, I used them while having the TV on in the background. I drew horrible, terrible things. Things I will never show anyone. After half an hour, I looked at the page and it was a mess. I wanted to erase the whole damn thing. Instead, I flipped the page and started again. The second page was better. Things began to resemble a little of what I could see in my head. It was still terrible, but less terrible.

Then it was bedtime.

The next night, after dinner, I casually flicked through the notebook again. I looked over my previous work. Most of it was still rubbish, but there was something in a particular drawing I did that gave me the motivation to refine it a bit. So, I started drawing a better version of it. In fact, I drew three better versions of it. Each one better than the previous. By the end of that one hour, I had something compelling enough to want to colour it in. But, it was bedtime again.

On night number three, I dug out my watercolour set. I was given it for a Christmas present two years earlier. I was so ‘fearful’ of producing bad work it sat idle in a draw for all that time. But not this night. I had a drawing I was happy with, so I started to colour it in. The result? I completely stuffed up the whole thing. I mean, a complete disaster. I wanted to throw the entire thing out, along with all my art supplies. In the bin, forever. Anyway, by that time it was time to go to bed again.

Wearing armour for overcoming fear

This went on for weeks. I did a little bit, hated most of it, but found something small in everything I did each time. Whether that was a particular gesture, body position, colour choice. There was always something that made it motivating to continue.

See, what no one tells you is that an art practice is generative. The more you do it, the more you begin to learn to see things to improve. That gives you more motivation to improve those things and the snowball gets larger and larger until, well, you begin to identify as an artist. It took me three years of this practice, a 3-book deal with a publisher, and some industry recognition before I started to think, “Hmm, maybe I am an artist?” Only now am I starting to truly feel comfortable and value my own work in this way. And, it’s still not good enough. I’ve still got a long way to go.

Creative block is a mythical beast

There’s no mystical ‘blocking’ force out there. The universe isn’t out to stop you making stuff. It turns out that Seth is dead right – It’s quite simply fear. Fear to be found out for the imposter that you believe to be but that no one else recognises.

In the end, the only difference between an artist and someone who isn’t an artist is that the artist does the work, even when that work is terrible and it feels as though there’s no light at the end of the tunnel. Note to self: there’s always light, just show up every day and do the work to find it.

What speaks to me in Richard’s work is its apparent simplicity. I’m a minimalist at heart, I’m always looking to reduce complexity in anything I do; in life, work and art. So, the rawness and energy that he achieves with smart use of colour and a simple palette knife have me addicted. Like with most simplicity, it’s what you don’t see that counts. Years of practice, an expert in colour. I’m sure he’s spent years and years and years painting, then refining, then painting again. It’s only this tireless life’s work that can result in what we’re seeing him produce lately.

A chance introduction to Richard’s work

My first experience of Richard Musgrave-Evans’ work was while I was on my artist residency in Adelaide in 2017. In my mission to find the most hipster coffee shop that Adelaide had to offer, all signs pointed to Tall Henry. So, off I went, strolling in unfamiliar suburbs on my way to great coffee. It wasn’t until I could smell the beans being roasted that my eye caught sight of a bright orange and pink painting. It was clearly an Australian sunset, the afternoon light hitting red cliffs and making them blaze against a blue and purple sky. I had just returned from a driving holiday to Uluru so the painting brought back immediate memories. This piece was sitting in the Worth Gallery, next door to Tell Henry. I remember standing in front of that gallery (closed at the time) for a good 20 minutes drinking in all the details of the smudge and smear of expertly placed paint. Who is this? How much is this piece? When is the gallery open? These questions ran through my head but having not been caffeinated yet, I pulled myself away.

I returned day after day to the Worth Gallery to look at the piece and investigate its subtleties. Day after day, the gallery wasn’t open. Was the gallery even functioning anymore?

Anyway, with seemingly no one around to open this gallery I considered the piece out of my reach. I continued my residency and promptly flew back to Melbourne to continue ‘life as normal’.

A piece that wouldn’t leave

Over the course of the summer, I thought about this painting time and time again. Who was that person? How would I find them? My illustration schedule was too tight to permit me to investigate it more intentionally and so I chalked it up to a fleeting experience.

Re-discovering Richard

I can’t remember how I came across Richard again. Perhaps it was Instagram? An algorithm? I think I was feeling disappointed in not being able to find any artist that was representing our beautiful Australian desertscapes in a contemporary way. There was plenty of indigenous art, or more representational and colour-accurate work but nothing ‘fun’. And so, I stumbled across this guy called Richard Musgrave-Evans. It wasn’t the same piece I saw in the Worth Gallery window, but there was something interesting about it. As I dug in more and more, I realised that this was, in fact, the same guy! Is that fate? Great algorithm-ing? Who knows. It really doesn’t matter.

Inspiration and a drive to explore

Richard has a brilliant social media presence. He’s regularly engaging on Instagram and his YouTube videos, whilst crudely created, are full of rich advice and demonstration. They’re a gift to the world.

The one thing that I’ve always loved about watercolour over other mediums like acrylics or oils is how convenient watercolour is. It’s easy to clean, not messy, and very transportable. But Richard’s restrained colour palette and direct use of a palette knife for applying paints give a traditionally messy medium (oil paints) much higher accessibility and convenience. Watching him work was like a B12 shot to get me painting. You mean I don’t need turps and linseed oil and crazy fumey chemicals to get into this medium?

Because of this, I’ve been sinking any spare time and money I have into exploring the possibilities of painting with a palette knife because of Richard. I can feel it changing the way I think about colour and an approach to ‘painting’; an activity I’ve never really felt comfortable with, despite my abilities in book illustration.

I strongly encourage you to take a look at Richard’s work. Follow him on your social channels because he’s giving SO much to all of us. Even if you don’t like his style, or don’t identify with the way he paints, there’s something to learn in watching him, even if it’s just how peaceful it is to eat damper and drink tea in the dying light of the Australian Outback.

The world of children’s publishing is a constant surprise to me. Never in a million years would I have imagined I would ever experience some things that only writing and illustrating for children has given to me in my short career so far. I’m starting to lose track of the ways in which each and every experience has enriched my life. And now, another feather has been added to this cap. Vision Australia is now offering Eric the Postie to kids with impaired vision through their incredible initiative, The Feelix Library, and I got to record the reading!

Vision Australia’s Feelix Book Kits

Registered members of Vision Australia’s Feelix Library can now borrow a copy of Eric the Postie. What do kids with impaired vision do with picture books you ask? Well, the wonderful folks at Vision Australia have worked that all out. Each picture book is supplied as a “kit”. Each kit includes a copy of Eric the Postie (with braille translation included), and some related sensory experiences that are themed around the book.

The fun part for me was having the opportunity to read Eric the Postie in Vision Australia’s custom-designed recording studio. You know, those double-sided glass rooms with microphones and headphones and all the check check check, one, two, one two stuff? Brilliant. Like the Beatles except, well, not as cool.

The ‘performance’ is burned to CD and included in the kit so families can listen to a reading, experience the tactility of the book, read along with the translated braille, and ultimately enjoy a multi-sensory experience when interacting with the touch/feel components of the kit.

If this wasn’t enough to get excited about, they also asked me to read and *gulp* sing, two other nursery rhyme books of mine – Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes. The staff were expert in making me feel comfortable in this confronting scenario and I won’t be auditioning for The Voice any time soon. But, it’s an experience that will stay with me for a long time yet, and better still, we plan to add a few more books in the future, as well as do a live story time at the Vision Australia offices.

Just. Wow.

Why should I paint? Why should I draw? What gives me the right to ‘waste time’ on either? It’s not productive. No one is buying it. I could be doing something valuable. It’s taking up space in the house. I can’t get rid of this stuff. No one is buying it.

What happened to us? When did we become so goal-focussed? We outsource our lives to give us more time. More time to make more money. More time to be more ‘productive’ – whatever that means. We’re in a culture that measures success by reach, followers, income, revenue, profit, time, clickers, friends. Numbers are easy. There are formulas to follow. Algorithms to game. If you play by those rules, you can win. Easy.

What’s really scary? Actual risk. Personal risk. I find it interesting that insurance companies don’t have a policy for you if you try to put your heart into the world and it doesn’t work out. Or you reveal your soul, and it’s mocked. Or you discover a weakness you have that shakes you and your identity to your core. Why isn’t this insured? Why aren’t VCs and investors looking to double-down on someone’s identity, mental health, courage, resilience?

Numbers protect us. They give us a value that we can pretend is a reflection of how successful or productive we are. How much we’re worth. Ridiculous phrases like “High-Net-Worth” individuals exist. For goodness sake.

But there’s another currency. One that only those who trade in it really understand. VCs won’t invest in it. Insurance companies won’t insure against its loss. No, it’s not Bitcoin. It doesn’t work on numbers. It can’t be objectively calculated or assessed for risk. No compensation can match a loss in this currency. It’s the currency of the soul.

When you work in a world of quantitative assessment, it’s difficult to prioritise things against a different set of outcomes. Outcomes that run so deeply that no one else understands them. Outcomes that aren’t objectively quantifiable. What sort of person am I? What is my moral code? What are my strengths and weaknesses? Who am I? There have been attempts by science to codify these things. But it’s not objective. It can’t be. This parallel world of qualitative outcomes is wholly subjective, and the only assessment that matters is one’s own. It’s about investing time in yourself, through making art. Art is one of the most important ways to discover who you really are.

So, make things. Things that fill your soul and mind with warmth. When you do, you’ll know what it’s like to be an artist. Once you get that glimpse, it’s a very difficult thing to turn away from. The returns in this market are joyous and overwhelming if you’re willing and courageous enough to play. They are found in the process. An activity where the objective view of third parties doesn’t matter, even though it’s difficult to ignore. People may still pass condescending remarks, or tell you that it doesn’t look like anything to them, or they don’t get the point of it. But that IS the point. Because art is about the artist. The individual. It’s the one activity that helps you make sense of the world. The act of creating is itself a step toward becoming a fuller person. One who is more in touch with their own weaknesses, fears, strengths, and who one really is.

You can’t game self-discovery through art. There are no rules that apply to more than one person. All we need to do is ignore the numbers and explore. Play, for play’s sake, what comes out will be art. And the market, for once, is in your favour.

I’ve never really identified with being a ‘literary’ person. And yes, I’m aware of the irony given I’m an author/illustrator. I’ve always identified with being a more visual person rather than a wordsmith. As a kid, I remember drawing a lot, but I don’t remember reading or writing very much.

To me, the term ‘literary’ feels stuffy and pompous. It evokes images of snifters of brandy, houndstooth jackets with elbow patches, and old men smoking pipes while saying things like, “Indeed. I do agree.” Things that are too literary are things like poetry (Oh god, poetry!) or ‘classic’ novels like War and Peace, or anything written by Charles Dickens; those books that people say, “You simply must read if you’re serious about English or language.”

It’s only in recent years that I’ve discovered the beauty and joy of language. Not just to describe, but it helps me remember. It helps me sort out my thoughts and it helps me escape. I love to read other people’s language for the latter, and I’ve begun a conscious effort to write my own words for the former.

Since I’ve begun to read (thanks to my wife), I’ve found this overwhelming urge to play with my own words. To see how words can complement pictures. Sometimes drawing and colouring fails to capture a time and place. When pictures fail, I turn to words, and it turns out that it’s incredibly fun. I call it word-sketching.

What is a word-sketch?

A word-sketch is a bit like a poem, but I don’t use the word ‘poem’ because I find that I put too much pressure on myself to produce ‘poetry.’ A poem evokes complete-ness. A work of art. It becomes ‘literary’. And works of art are scary because they mean that I’m supposed to have tried to do something, and I’m supposed to have done it well. In contrast, “word-sketching” is simply an attempt to capture the feeling of a time and place at that time and place. There’s no pressure. It’s not meant for publication or sharing. It’s merely a method of writing that makes me more aware of my surroundings. It helps me slow down.

When I travel, I always take a sketchbook. I love to capture the buildings and spaces I see. I prefer it to photography. It’s a way to add or remove bits from a picture of a place based on the way I feel. Sure, I walk away with fewer images, but the ones I create run deep – a memory burned in the brain. Photographic accuracy isn’t the goal of a visual sketch, and it’s important to me that I keep it that way.

Think of a word-sketch like a visual sketch. But instead of using drawing skills (colour, line, and shape), it uses words, grammar, and punctuation instead. While a visual sketch can help me describe the colour and shape of things, a word sketch helps me ‘feel’ a place. It’s full of references to things I did — things that happened that day and what’s happening at that moment. It works like a cryptic diary entry. An external reader should feel something, but they probably would not see or understand all the references I use. Some of it might sound like mumbo jumbo, and some of it might sound utterly beautiful. Everyone who reads it will probably take something different away. And that’s OK, because it’s not for anyone else, it’s for me.

There are no rules with word-sketching (because I made it up) but it typically doesn’t follow a well-known poetic structure, those confusing literary terms like, “Dactylic pentameter”. It’s a free form of writing where the idea is to capture the essence of a place. Just describe what you see/hear/feel. Literary types probably call it “En Plein Air Free Verse.” See how fancy words can ruin ideas?

There’s no defined length to a word-sketch but, you always seem to know when you’ve finished one. You just sort of, run out of things to say and feel happy having gone through the process.

An example

Here’s one from my recent trip to Greece:

Orange, aniseed, bergamot, cloves,
Whilst bougainvillaea climb, basil and jasmine twists and turns.
A sweet aroma, a fragrance fills the air…
and my mind.
Coffee at dusk, the smell of burnt sugar, and
is that jasmine again?
Oregano and the bittersweet spearmint mingle, fold and swirl.
It’s a heady mix, this Sifnos place.
One that’s hard not to fall for,
Into.

And just in case you think you need to be on holiday to do this sort of thing, here’s another from this morning. I wrote it when I was sitting on the train and this lady who looked as though she took Cruella De Ville for fashion inspiration sat across from me having just purchased a set of cheap ring jewellery:

The Lady of Lovisa
She untwisted twist ties
Awkwardly, with chopstick fingers.
Costume jewellery.
Bling.
Rings.
She arranged her accoutrements
Subtle
and Precise.
A ring or two for a finger,
a finger for every purpose.
With glamour came confidence
a bargain price, $4.99.

Why is word-sketching important?

1. It expands vocabulary: Word-sketching stretches my vocabulary. It makes me think hard (and quick) about the specific words I want to use to capture a feeling or a moment. Quite often, I surprise myself. As I’m a visual person, I tend to find it easier to describe what I see in shape and colour. I know that I can ‘paint warm’ by using yellow, or paint ‘cool and calm’ by using blue. But there’s also a difference in using the words ‘cool’ or ‘calm’ to precisely construct a feeling using words.
2. It opens me up to describing all senses: I’m suddenly opened up to a whole other realm of senses when I word-sketch. It’s quite difficult to capture how something smells or tastes if you’re visual-sketching a moment, but with words, those descriptions are at your fingertips.
3. It helps me remember: I often find I use events that happened during the day to try to describe the things I might be feeling or noticing at the time I’m writing. One example of this: “Strawberry lemonade cast on cubist landscape.”

   I had noticed that the sunset gave all the white buildings a very pink light. Earlier that day, we had a cocktail by the beach called a “Strawberry Lemonade” that was also a very translucent pink so I recorded that little moment, but in the context of the sunset I was trying to describe. No one else will understand the reference without the backstory, but I didn’t write it for anyone else.

Most importantly, I can feel that word-sketching is helping me become a more complete artist. I’m learning how the components of written language (words, punctuation, grammar) behave and feel like my more intuitive art of visual expression. In the end, I want to be the best picture book creator, story-teller and artist I can be, and word-sketching is a brilliant, low-pressure tool to use.

Brief instructions for how to word-sketch

If word-sketching sounds like fun to you and you’d like to give it a go, I’ve tried to document the process I go through. It’s still very new to me, so chances are this will change as I evolve myself and learn better ways to express my true process. But here’s where it stands right now.

1. Grab a small book (or a piece of paper) and a pen
2. Find a place to sit. This might be somewhere idyllic like a Greek Island beach, or it could be outside your corner store or even on a train on your daily commute.
3. Take about one minute, and just watch. Really try to pay attention to what’s going on around you. Listen and smell. Don’t write anything yet. Just think. What can you hear? What can you see? Is there a breeze? Is it cold or hot? What are people wearing? What does the sky remind you of?
4. After a minute or so, start jotting down the things that strike you. Try to be as efficient as you can with words. Instead of “I sit on the hot pavement, the sweat trickles down my leg,” try “Hot asphalt, sweat seeps from tingling skin.” By focusing on the essential elements and removing all the bits in between, it leaves a reader to fill in some gaps. For a reader (you), that’s fun.
5. Do this for a few minutes and see what happens. Do you end up creating a narrative? Does it come to a logical end? Do you run out of ideas and get sick of it? All of these are OK endpoints. The idea is to make sure you don’t edit. Just let the pen roll. No crossing out. Whatever you end up with will tell a story of some sort. You’ll remember sitting there, writing it and it’ll help you remember.

In a world where there’s a service vying for every second of our attention, word-sketching is an intentionally analogue way to simply notice what’s going on around you; the richness of the world we live in and how even the most ordinary thing can be beautiful.

If you do a sketch in this way, I’d love to hear how you found the process. Also, if you have any tips to help refine my instructions, I’d love to hear it.

I don’t know if anyone even listens to albums anymore. Music is a necessity when I’m painting or drawing and whilst I like the idea of things like “artist radio station”, nothing beats 45-70 minutes with the same artist who has painstakingly explored their soul and curated a sequence of songs that take you somewhere. Here’s a few recommendations for you if you’re looking for something to listen to.

Gurrumul – Djarimirri

Wow. That’s pretty much it. This album is my personal soundtrack to Queen Celine and it’s a stunner. It’s deeply, sensually Australian. You can almost feel the heartbeat of an ancient country across the whole album. If you’re a fan of Michael Nyman or Phillip Glass, this ones for you. It goes best with doing broad, sweeping washes of watercolour where you’re simply trying to capture the timelessness of the sun going down and rising again each day. 9/10

The Shins – Heartworms

The Shins deliver another brilliant album with Heartworms. If I find myself procrastinating, I’ll turn to this one, dance around a bit and then channel that energy into getting some work done. I’ve seen The Shins live multiple times now and they never fail to disappoint. I catch myself singing all different songs from this album and all times of the day. They’re fun and sticky. So much so that perhaps it could’ve been called “Earworms” and no one would question why. There’s also a brilliant second release of these songs that have been re-intepreted by the band themselves. It’s called Worm of the Heart and it’s no less impressive. 8.5/10

Arcade fire – Everything now

I’m a long time Arcade Fire fan, but this album just hasn’t been very sticky in the studio. I’ll listen to it once or twice and then a little while later I realise the music has stopped and I haven’t missed it. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still a great album, but it hasn’t been on high rotation in the studio, especially compared to the others of late. 6/10

Khruangbin – The universe smiles upon you

Producing art is the easiest way for me to slip into a flow state. Once I get going time goes all elastic and the rest of the world melts away. I’m discovering that artists like Khruangbin help with this. This album has been on repeat since I started Koala Bare over 12 months ago. Playing a genre of music that was born from the US Military’s occupation of Vietnam, Khruangbin makes tunes that have flavours of the east, supported by sideplate of classic american rock. I HIGHLY recommend giving them a listen but be sure to be in a safe place in case you end up in a state of hypnosis. 8/10

After 5 or so years of painting with watercolour, I’ve spent A LOT of money on paint. Some have been a brilliant investment, while others sit in the draw. There are some tubes that have only a few millilitres used and I’m unlikely to go to them any time soon. The problem is, I love colour, it’s seductive and exciting. I rarely leave a trip to the art store without another tube to try. But when it comes to watercolour paints, I’ve finally settled on a core set that’s great for my two main purposes: work in picture books and painting outdoors (also known as en-plein air painting).

Because colour is literally infinite, it’s important to be clear on why a colour is “in” and “out”. The ins and outs reasons described here are very personal and it’s likely that everyone will value different things in their paints. Here’s why these are the ones I trust:

1. For what I paint, I can make close to any colour with these 11 pigments
2. The mixes of each produce very reliable effects
3. They are all single pigment paints which helps provide luminosity to the work
4. They are ALL extremely lightfast which means if I sell anything, the buyer gets something that will last for a long time.

Here are the colours mapped on to the colour wheel

Brand	Name	Number	Notes
Daniel Smith	Hansa Yellow Medium	PY97	A bright versatile mid yellow. It mixes beautifully with a whole range of blues and reds.
Daniel Smith	Permanent Yellow Deep	PY110	When it’s diluted, it’s a sunnyside up egg yolk. But when it’s thick and buttery, it’s the dark yellow/orange of a hard-boiled egg yolk
Winsor and Newton	Scarlet Lake	PR188	I inititally found it difficult to like this colour, until I learned how to use it.
Daniel Smith	Permanent Rose	PV19	My pet name for this colour is ‘blush’. It’s perfect for pink cheeks.
Daniel Smith	Ultramarine	PB29	The most versatile and used paint in my palette.
Holbein	Cerulean Blue	PB36	Most useful for skies. It’s a sunny blue that’s also great for shadows in white clothing.
Daniel Smith	Yellow Ochre	PY43	Technically not ‘real’ yellow ochre but who cares right?
Winsor and Newton	Burnt Sienna	PR101	If I’m painting landscapes, I use the less orange alternative PBr7
Daniel Smith	Burnt Umber	PBr7	A most delicious brown. It’s like painting with chocolate
Daniel Smith	Perylene Maroon	PR179	Most people use Alizarin Crimson, but this alternative is so much more lightfast
Daniel Smith	Pthalo Green	PG7	I use this VERY rarely, mainly when I’m lazy. It makes the blackest black when you mix it with it’s exact complement, PR179

I’ll write a bit more about each in-depth later, but for now:

Hansa Yellow Medium (PY97)

There’s not really that much to say about this pigment except it’s a nice primary yellow and because of this, very versatile. You can make some beautiful oranges if you mix it with reds and VERY bright greens if you mix it with the right blue. On its own, it’s perfect for bright sunny days.

Permanent Yellow Deep (PY110)

BOY did I fuss over getting this one nailed down. It was actually one of the first pigments I ever bought but I spent so much time messing around with ‘orange’. I tried Pyrolle Orange, but it just doesn’t mix as cleanly with some of the other colours I have. I also tried Nickel Azo Yellow, which is duller, and, well, just ‘less orange’. Nickel Azo is still one of my favourite colours, but in terms of a flexible colour palette, nothing goes past Permanent Yellow Deep. New Gamboge came close but I like to stick with single pigments, and New Gamboge is a mix between two different ones.

Good alternatives depending on your needs: New Gamboge, Nickel Azo, Pyroll Orange

Scarlet Lake (PR188)

Scarlet Lake was in my first watercolour set but it never looked ‘red’ enough for me. It loses a lot of saturation as it dries. I went out on a limb and bought a Pyrolle Red to see if that changed my opinion. And, well, Pyrolle Red is gorgeous, it’s perfect fire truck red, but I just couldn’t get the luminosity in my mixing in the way I can with Scarlet Lake.

Permanent Rose (PV19)

Ok, so technically this isn’t red, but by golly isn’t a gorgeous pigment. Mix it with a dash of yellow ochre for a lovely skin tone, or let it mingle with ultramarine for a perfect purple. I don’t carry a purple pigment because it’s too much fun seeing how Permanent Rose and Ultramarine make magic on the paper together.

Ultramarine (PB29)

Yikes, this colour deserves it’s own post! It’s by far the most useful colour for anyone, ever in watercolour. No matter which other blog or site you look at, this will be an absolute staple in every person’s palette. In fact, you could literally run with this blue and no other if you really wanted to, it’s that good.

Cerulean Blue (PB36)

No matter how many cool blues I try, nothing gets me quite as much as this Cerulean by Holbein. It’s the only Holbein I carry and I dare say that if I was painting more natural landscapes, a Cerulean Chromium from Daniel Smith or Manganese Blue Hue from Daniel Smith would suit better. But when it comes to painting summer skies for picture books, Cerulean is my go to.

Pthalo Green (PG7)

I don’t really need Pthalo Green, but I keep it on my palette anyway, for when I’m lazy. Even without it, I’m confident now that I can mix any green I need. But, it’s got this secret magical power. When you mix it with Perylene Maroon (it’s exact complementary (opposite) colour) you get the blackest black you’re ever likely to be able to find. I don’t often like mixing black (or using it at all) but sometimes, on very special occassions, it’s nice to be able to make it when you need it.

Perylene Maroon (PR179)

There’s probably only one place on the internet where the recommendation is to avoid Alizarin Crimson. EVERYONE still uses it, well, at least they say they do. But Bruce McEvoy of Handprint recommends giving Perry (my pet name for this pigment) a try and I’m so glad I did. It’s quite simply luscious. If you need red velvet curtains? Ask Perry. If you need the blackest black you can ever make, introduce Perry to Pthalo Green. It’s not an everyday pigment for me in the book illustration work that I do, but for landscapes, it’s a delight to work with.

Earths: Yellow Ochre (PY43), Burnt Sienna (PR101), Burnt Umber (Pbr7)

Whilst I can get pretty close to hitting these colours with certain mixes from the others, I find the earth triad really just so pleasurable to work with. Everything from sandy beaches to the dusty red Australian soil, the combination of these three workhorses bring me an instant pleasure. And isn’t that what painting is supposed to be about?

And that’s it…

Well, I’m always experimenting with different pigments but they’re really expensive and so to save money, the best thing to do is learn how to colour mix properly. There are other pigments I use for special occassions of course, like Indanthrone Blue when I need a nice pure navy, or Manganese Blue Hue for meditteranean waters. But overall, there’s a reason ‘split primary’ is a well-known colour setup. So, now I’m off to do some mixing.

People ask me, ‘Where do you get your ideas?’ And, like most writers, I have the standard answer, “From life.” But I know it’s not a good answer. It’s vague, unhelpful, and to be honest, a bit of a cop-out. A better answer would be, “It’s complicated” or “I actually don’t know”. But that’s also unhelpful although slightly more accurate. It’s challenging to try and unravel where they really do come from. Every project and story is different. There’s no formula. When I hit on an idea, it’s often a surprise to me too. What I do know is that most people don’t have the time or attention span for me tell them the whole answer. Here’s a short version of the things I currently believe to be the biggest influence on where I get ideas.

Input happens constantly

I think of every second of life as ‘input’. The thing I ate for breakfast, the people I saw on my commute, the pigeon that pooed on my shoulder today. Every sound, image, or feeling that enters through my senses, whenever I’m doing anything, ends up in my brain.

Most of the time, I’m not remotely aware of the sheer volume of information going in to my brain but it’s there because I find it at the most unexpected times.

Like most people, I don’t consciously remember every little thing I saw, said, did, or smelled. But it’s there. I know it’s there because I remember things I don’t even know I remember at the weirdest times. For example, I couldn’t tell you the exact words I used when I was chatting with someone in line at a cafe yesterday. But then, years later, I’ll remember the exact conversation when something seemingly unrelated triggers it. There’s no obvious logic to what will trigger a memory, and so that makes it difficult to codify and teach. Our brains are phenomenal at taking in and storing information. Most of the time, we’re not aware of what’s going in.

Timing is critical but serendipitous

The sequencing of events is influential in how my brain decides to mash things together at any given moment. These events don’t have to be linear, or even close to one another. Again, it’s pretty illogical and often, multi-sensory.

I might experience a taste as an adult. For some complicated reason (I’m sure a neuroscientist could expand on that), it triggers a memory of an old neighbourhood dog I knew when I was eight years old. The thought of the dog reminds me of a noisy neighbour who used to talk too loudly but cooked the best chicken schnitzels I ever ate. And then, yep, you guessed it, there’s an idea for a crazy chef who runs out of chicken and engages the help of a dog to go on chicken hunt adventure.

As terrible as that idea is, I think it demonstrates an important aspect of the way our brains work. The basic idea is that every brain is full of ephemera, and it’s a jumble. Sounds a lot like ‘life’, right? At least with life, there’s a definite beginning and end.

Paying attention to yourself is important but difficult

These random memory triggers and weird convoluted connections between illogical events happen to me all the time. I’m sure they happen to you too. Our brains are not very different after all. So, I can only postulate that maybe the difference between me and people who ‘don’t have ideas’ is they don’t notice when it happens? The art of noticing takes work and practice. I plan to help with that in this journal over the coming months because there are definite tools and techniques for building this idea-catching muscle in yourself.

So yes, ideas come from life, and life is complicated. The real question we should be asking isn’t “Where do you get your ideas from?” It’s “How do you notice and idea and decide on which one to explore further?” THAT is much harder, and it’s the subject of a whole other post.

I’ve always been a fan of live music. I spent much of my early twenties going to pub bands and watching people ‘rock out’ on stage. But I very rarely think, “Hey, I should go see some classical music.” And that’s not because I don’t like it. I listen to quite a lot of in fact. But attending a live symphony is just not something that sits in the front of my mind. Based on my recent experience, it probably should.

My wife and I recently went to see “Joe Hisaishi in Concert: Music from the Studio Ghibli films of Hayao Miyazaki.”

There’s SO much to talk about from this experience. I could spend hours exploring the long-standing and marvellous collaboration of Hisaishi and Miyazaki – a perfect match of sound and vision. Or I could wax lyrical about the impact of Miyazaki’s storytelling – his influence on the way I tell stories. But for now, I want to focus on the orchestra.

When one hunded become one

I was struck most by the incredible power of a group of humans so in sync with one another. I was literally overwhelmed.

There were several moments of the performance that moved me so thoroughly that I had chills down my back and tears well up in my eyes. That doesn’t usually happen to me. Ever. I couldn’t help but ask myself why.

It turns out that sitting in that auditorium, listening to a group of humans dedicated so wholly and entirely to their craft, all moving in sync, contributing to a broader goal and achieving it spectacularly is a pretty privileged and moving experience. Sounds obvious, right?

Guided by this most iconic Japanese artist, the orchestra was such a shining example of how connected human endeavour can result in something beyond any individual achievement. It’s a thing that can ONLY be achieved through mastery at all levels. At a personal level, the musicians are clearly masters of their craft. And at a tribal level, the shared understanding of everyone’s place in the tribe and their willingness to contribute to making something greater than themselves.

I rarely process experiences as profound as this immediately. It was difficult to describe to my wife what I was feeling at the time. As we walked out of the theatre, I just kept harping on about ‘hopefulness.’

For me, Hisaishi’s music exudes hopefulness. It’s a feeling I get after every Miyazaki movie. That the world isn’t as cruel, or inevitably doomed as the media leads us to believe. And Hisaishi did it to me again. But this time the feeling of hope that I got from the music was paired with some surreal sense of being alive. A feeling of being a part of something. I just couldn’t put my finger on it at the time.

I wasn’t up there with 100 musicians. In fact, I’ve never collaborated with 100 people simultaneously on anything. But the experience and the days afterward have me thinking about our species and humanity again. A reminder that we’ve all got our own instruments, the ones we refine over the years of our life. It truly helps to consider our smaller place in the bigger picture. We contribute in our own way to further the tribe, just like different sections in an orchestra. Each piece is needed for a fuller, more luxurious experience for all.

So this is what I’ll take away from a night at the symphony – that the world isn’t that bad, there’s hope for us. And I’ll do my darndest to make life a bit better for all, even after I’m gone.