I still marvel when a painting is complete, as though the work has come to life by itself. I am often in 'the flow’ as the saying goes - that state of being where you lose a sense of time or surrounding and are profoundly engaged in what is happening, a sort of unfolding into which you are gathered. I don’t say here ‘what I’m doing’ because as soon as I think that, I become aware of my self and become an intruder in the act of painting and I believe the self has no place in the flow. The more I can remove ‘me’ and let creation take place, the better. The performative aspect gives way to authenticity.
And there is clearly a sense of when this is not happening. The 'trying' begins, the colours muddy, the energy of the work becomes flat and if one is wise, one will step away from the easel and recognise that the flow will return later. I am learning (after seven years of painting) to put the brush down and walk away, perhaps go and read or take a long walk with the dog and soak up the natural beauty of Sussex. The impressions those walks leave on me resurface anyway: nothing is wasted and they find their way back into the art.
At one point, earlier in the year, the art-flow left me altogether. I had messages in church to surrender my painting. 'But it’s my job!' I told the two women who both had received the same image, their hands gently on my back interceding for me; both had seen the image of me laying the brushes down on the altar. I had asked for prayer over my painting as sales were drying up, this was the last thing I needed, I argued. I was stressed. I couldn’t pay for the rent on my studio, let alone buy new canvases. I wasn't sleeping.
I had never seen myself as painting just for the absolute joy of it: that was certainly a luxury I could not afford. There were all the other bills to pay as well and I had left my full time job in 2018 as a Psychology and Philosophy A Level school at a rather fancy school in Cranbrook to do this full time. No more free lunches for me. (I looked forward to the lunches more than the teaching sadly.) I had tried to go back into the field but only lasted a year the final time and there were no free lunches at Weald Grammar School. Also no Philosophy, which was depressing to me.
It wasn’t so much that I heeded the message about surrender as that I had no choice - I gave notice on my studio, which cost £500pcm plus electricity – an eyewatering amount for what was ostensibly a horrid office space on an industrial estate with wiry blue carpet tiles (stained) and metal bars across the windows. This was a move from another studio (£670pcm) which was in a sort of warehouse. An enormous space which I loved, I could really spread out and do large scale canvases but the problem was that there were no windows and the fumes from the mediums and oils made me ill. I’m sure I lost quite a few braincells during that time. Headaches pushed me out to somewhere with windows. Each studio I have painted in has made a significant impact on my colour palette, style and sense of confidence. Before the warehouse I had been working from Ashburnham Place, where my art truly flourished. It was only because the Bothy studio had mould that I was forced to leave otherwise I'd still be there now. Set in lush grounds, it was a place of tranquility and I miss it.
I found I could not paint in the 'office'. It was sterile. You might think I would have painted black and dark colours during dank days but these colours have their own beauty and don't always pertain to negativity. Some of my favourite works have dark backgrounds. Instead, what I painted was formless expressions of anxiety in lurid colours, splodges thrown at the canvas. They looked more like chemical fungi than paintings. At one point, I even resorted to adding cement - yes cement - to my work in a bid to add texture, to try something new, to do anything. Looking back, that's so symbolic. Anyway, it only got worse and worse as I chased myself down a hole of striving.
Finally, I put the paintbrushes away. I resigned myself to the fact that I was not ‘an artist’, a label which always caught sideways in my mouth. Shortly after this, my daughter was hit by lorry when cycling in London and everything stopped. Paintings became unimportant and my life became only about her. I went to look after her for three weeks following her surgery. As time passed and she was able to do more for herself again, I had a lot of time on my hands. I wasn't at home so I could not busy myself. The desire to paint for the pure act itself began to unfurl, perhaps for the first time. It was no longer about the impulse to create a finished piece but centred on being in silence and letting an image emanate from the contemplation, regardless of the end result. I realised how much I needed to paint as stillness, not as production. I also looked at how many paintings I had discarded as 'not good enough' over the years, when really they just needed to be set aside for a while before developing. In every aspect of my life, I lacked patience and faith.
When I returned to painting, it was in a different state of mind and a new environment. I began to see the wonder of it and that the wonder was itself a gift. I felt admonished in some sense. Perhaps I had been some sort of spoilt child, demanding paintings to occur, getting angry and upset when they did not. (Thus the Tantrum Paintings of which I kept no record, otherwise I would show you just how bad they were.) My inner critic had historically told me everything I painted was infantile and I didn't give myself any break for being self-taught. The ingratitude marred any sense of wonder, or awe for the creative spirit. People take substances to see the world differently. I believe this is a synthetic response to our need for wonder. When we become used to what is around us, we fail to see and you cannot force creativity if you cannot even see or even feel. Not only that, the art had not 'stopped', it was just showing me how I felt about myself and my life. In short, I was deeply unhappy and the art registered that with ugly blockage paintings, actual records of the 'not-flow'.
When we attach labels to ourselves, ‘artist’, ‘writer’, ‘entrepreneur’, we immediately impose a set of expectations. What I am learning is that this pressure removes the wonder and makes us think that the self, that grand Westernised 'I' is what is driving creation. We are autonomically creative, we have no more given ourselves creativity than we have the gift of breath. It is within us, if we would only stop throttling it. That awareness allows paintings to happen through me, not by me. It's still only been seven years and the art is constantly evolving. And the times not painting are as important as those spent creating. I read, I write, I'm learning piano. The dog keeps me outside, as I said, and that's a good thing for mental prosperity.
On the other hand, it has also been useful for me to recognise that the work I create is closely connected to interior design. It was working on our current project (renovating a flat with a double length room looking out to sea) which re-invigorated my work after Issy's surgery (she now has a lot of hardware in one leg but is able to walk). I wanted to adorn the place and that's also a different stance from making my self any starting point. The flat has lots of light and space and is generous in the way it allows painting to flourish - it has become an unexpected studio. The painting shown above ('The Creative Flow') is one of three which will hang in that room. The one on the right is for the second bedroom. To decorate a home with art, for me, is to show it love, to change the energy and frequency of the space and to promote well-being in return.
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