The past 4 weeks have already felt like some of the strangest in my creative life so far. With exhibitions moving online, galleries and collectives offering live painting classes over social media, artist support pledges and virtual communities coming together to support their fellow creatives, we have seen first-hand the determination of artists and creatives to not let the global lockdown dampen their spirits. It is beautiful and affirming to see these pockets of triumph and resilience despite the pandemic that has now touched every area of life, yet there is a very real shift in the work we – as artists, and simply as humans – are able to do. I have found myself drawing inwards, both physically and figuratively, and it has really made me consider how much my practice is influenced by my interaction with other artists, with family, friends, and by my daily life. In this months’ post, I wanted to explore the self-reflection that the current situation has thrust upon me, examine the practical and mental effects of confinement and discuss the new direction my work has been taking since isolation began.
In this contradictory month, which seems to have simultaneously lasted the blink of an eye, and the best part of a decade, I have found my creative mind riding a rollercoaster of varying emotion and cognition surrounding this new way of life. To begin with, the change was welcome, I rejoiced in the potential of hours and days rolling out before in which to paint, create, sleep, think and reflect. The removal of routine from my day job and social commitments meant I could focus fully on my practice, organise my studio, finish all the half-completed canvases that litter my home, and grow as an artist.
To begin with, this was joyous, I spent at least a week purely creating a new series of embroidered works, translating my usually large paintings into delicate needle-works that recontextualised the nude figures from Playboy into miniature figurative studies, nestled amongst the text of the reclaimed paper I worked onto. These pieces felt fresh and new and exciting – despite my pinpricked fingers and aching eyes. And with a few exhibitions and auctions moving online, I could still find productivity and joy in the work.
Emrboidered works: The Desert, Oxygen, Rock Pool
As the weeks continued I felt the sprawling and indefinite lockdown begin to hit home. The initial excitement to create had turned into a self-prescribed pressure to ‘make use’ of this ‘time off’, and each day I spent hours trying and failing to produce anything I felt was worthy or interesting. Just as my home workouts and experimental baking had gone out the window after about 9 days, I could feel my creativity flagging. In addition to this mental pressure, I also live in my studio. And while I recognise this immense privilege in still having access to my studio and my work – something that many artists have had to give up because of social distancing measures – waking up in the presence of empty canvases, piles of sketches and paintings that aren’t working can be crushing.
I began to reminisce to my times in the university studios, the hum of my colleagues working in the adjacent spaces, the chatter about planned work and ideas, the ability to go for a walk or a pint when your brushes just weren’t doing what they told you. The quiet and solidarity I sometimes craved in the hectic final weeks before an exhibition had suddenly become an enemy and a detriment. Not only had I retreated inside physically, but I also found that my internal monologue echoing around my head louder than ever. And of course, being the stubborn woman I am, rather than trying to acknowledge and address it, I decided I wanted to shut it up, or failing that drown it out.
So, like many of us seem to be doing once banana bread grows boring and we realise we hate running, I decided to spring clean. First it was my paints, brushes, pastels and pencils. (Also, my wardrobe, but that’s not particularly interesting artistically so we’ll leave that for now). A cathartic clear out found stubs of broken crayons, murdered brushes caked in oil so deeply they were beyond saving, paint chips, sketches, and a disturbing amount of washi tape. It felt briefly wonderful to have my tiny home studio tidy; freshly laid dust sheets, colour coordinated acrylic stocks, sharpened pencils and dried out sharpies discarded. Next came archiving. Dragging out every single painting I had ever made from it’s safe hiding place in my garage rafters, bulky box stretchers clattering together and filling my newly cleared studio. I spent days, slicing my fingers to ribbons as I removed every pin and staple, documented, rolled and labelled each piece. The rafters in my garage sighed with relief.
But then. The crushing pressure to make came back.
Around 2 weeks in and I had done all the jobs I had been procrastinating for the past year. All the unimportant but necessary tasks were completed, all there was left to do was make, and I knew deep down I was uninspired. My usual social interactions and human connections which motivate so much of my practice had dwindled and I was hit by the reality of it all. I looked at my Instagram feed, the pile of archived works and the blank canvases and I felt my mind asking the dreaded questions:
What if I’m not even that good?
What if I’ve peaked?
What if these works are awful and boring and I am wasting this time?
And I would love to tell you that these thoughts just went away and I carried on and felt better and didn’t question my entire artistic career. But they didn’t, these questions remain and I still feel quite severely uninspired by the concepts, images and ideas that usually spur me on. But what I did do was look elsewhere. I realised that I was trying to create work in the same way I always had, despite everything about the way I normally work being flipped on its head. No longer was I sneaking in an hour of painting after a late shift, or desperately sketching on my lunch break, planning paintings and projects on my commute as an escape from normal life. How insane that I had been trying to create normally, in what is one of the furthest from ‘normal’ times I have ever experienced.
Self Portrait IV
Luckily, I am not alone in this feeling. Almost every other artist I know has been experiencing a similar shift, in how they work, in what they are working on, even in where they are working. Life is different, so it’s time to be a bit different. And almost as if he had been listening to my messy thoughts, Leo from The Rafiki Gallery reached out to me to tell me about a new collection of works he was hoping to put together, all based around the idea of home. My first thought as a figurative artist, was “aw damn, this isn’t really for me.” But pondering this all at 2am – which seems to be my new noon – I had a sudden, welcome, bolt of inspiration.
My body is my home.
And now more than ever. It is my constant. My security and my friend. My body has become the beacon of this pandemic. I am trying to protect it, I am grounding it to contribute to the protection of others, and I am more present in it than ever. So, this is my home, and this is my contribution. I decided to begin working on my first ever figurative self-portraits.
With a new sense of direction – even just for the short term – I began working on a number of new pieces, all responses to my own body, either photographs I had taken, or working from life. As I worked, and focused on these ideas of home, comfort, and presence within myself, I found that my painting technique became looser and embraced a more nonchalant style of working that felt freer, messier and very different to the sharp lines and blocked colour of my previous works. It’s been a wonderful feeling to explore these new things; concepts, ideas, techniques and workings. And on the days where I still feel stumped, unmotivated and a little bit crap – and trust me there’s a lot of them – I find comfort in the fact that at any moment my brain could click with a new idea. Just as Leo encouraged me to think about bodies differently by simply suggested a theme, I need to be open to new ways of working within this new way of living. I hope that in these strange times, we may all find the ability and time to reflect a little, find new corners of ourselves to explore or sit with. New ways of working, new ways of being.
Self Portrait II
Mo Gawdat speaks of “committed acceptance” in relation to dealing with the anxieties of these times, and I feel it is precisely that which I need in order to adapt my process; I need myself to commit to the notion that I cannot change my situation now, and so I can either do nothing or I can adapt my working to suit the new situation. Some days I embrace that adaptation, and produce the exciting pieces and experiments you see here, other days I sit in my bed and drink coffee and eat cinnamon rolls and have a cry. Both, so far, seem to be working. If you are struggling – and especially if you are a creative – I urge you to find your own form of committed acceptance, to reach out to other artists or friends who may be experiencing similar frustrations. And most importantly, if you are privileged enough to be able to do so, give yourself a break.
So watch this space, new and different things may be coming to an online exhibition or Instagram feed near you… once I finish all the cinnamon rolls that is.