Our world is cluttered. Like the notice boards in old corner shops or the nineteen-eighties corridors of universities, where nobody ever took anything down, the internet suffers an endless layering of information. Not that it’s all bad. Increasingly, we search for things and depend on them being eternally (maybe) available. At other times, however, it seems that the build-up of questionably useful material will never end. At what stage does the world reach an overload of ‘stuff’: a saturation point of posts, pages, photos, videos, news, online books, courses, marketing and the like?

Brian Clark is a US writer, entrepreneur and founder of many companies. I heard him speaking on a podcast the other day. He has a test. He applies this test before he puts anything into the world. Brian Clark asks himself: ‘Does this need to be out there?’ I don’t think there’s a moral or altruistic motive along the lines of cutting down on the internet noise but, rather, more concern about keeping his own presence ‘slim’. He sees value in maintaining output that is essential, valuable and contributory. If the information is not providing a means for advancement, he would err on the side of leaving it on his screen and not letting it loose in the public sphere.

To what extent does this apply to us as artists, writers, bloggers and emailers? ‘Does this need to be out there?’ Are we generating stuff that is merely momentary with an expiration date that renders it useless in a matter of days? And, even if that is the case, perhaps it doesn’t matter anyway.

A recent blog post from Seth Godin reminded us of the editing principle that every sentence needs to serve a purpose. ‘It doesn’t exist to take up space, it exists to … move the reader from here to there.’ I am turning over in my mind, now, how art (and particularly my art) including writing (and particularly my writing) moves the viewer or reader from one place to another.

There’s nothing necessarily serious or stifling about these concepts. Entertainment, distraction, simple enjoyment and the drawing of attention are ‘moving’ processes. It would be an unmitigated disaster if all information had to be making a point, hammering an opinion or whatever.

So, does this blog need to be out there? It certainly needs to be out of my head. Would an old-fashioned notebook or journal be a better, and less world-wide-cluttering, space for the writing? Do the paintings I work on today need to be out there? Maybe a personal sketchbook instead? These questions don’t require answers from anyone else. They are for me to muse on. They are considerations for me to apply to each piece before it’s released. ‘Am I putting out there only the best I can do, only the most important, only the most effective in taking the receiver to some new place?’

Until later and, hopefully, happy journeying,

Kirsten

Some of you may have noticed that I have changed the name of the blog. It’s not a big change but the implications are significant.

I am really just trying it on for size. The change makes me feel uncomfortable but that’s not always a bad thing. I can, of course, simply return to the original if the vague feeling of fear continues but I won’t do that immediately.

I have removed the word ‘aspiring’ from the title. You now read the everyday thoughts of an (unmitigated) artist. I wrote That great finger from the sky in June which dealt with similar issues. At the risk of repeating myself, I write about the topic again.

I decided that I needed to own the descriptor of artist. It was time to step into the actual role instead of watching from a vantage point at the side. From a safe vantage point at the side. That is the implication. By taking on the role fully it is possible to fail. As an aspiring artist I keep with me the knowledge that any failure is of the aspiration and not of the artist, a failure of the trying, not the being. But now I have put it out there, as the phrase goes. I have declared to the world, or to you at least, that artist is what I am. If it doesn’t work out that’s a degree of underachievement which would cause, no doubt, a corresponding degree of disappointment.

I haven’t deliberately set out to put myself under undue, or particularly new, pressure. My personal goal hasn’t changed, neither has the essence of the private way I see myself.  Aspiring just didn’t seem to fit the bill any longer for a public identity. It is time to be brave. It is time to step up.

Until later,

Kirsten (artist)

I imagined a funny smugness amongst the people at the supermarket at opening time this morning.

‘Well, we didn’t succumb to the alcohol-fuelled artifice that is New Year’s Eve.’

‘We don’t have a self-inflicted sore head today.’

‘We subscribe to the logic that a twelve-month period can begin anywhere in the cycle. It’s only a peculiarity of the Gregorian calendar that it happens today.’

You can approach it as you will. Regardless of your views, though, there is a sense of a new beginning at the start of another year. It is an inspiration point for many a positive decision or aspiration. Resolutions, we call them.

‘I resolve …’

‘I will …’

‘This is my year for …’

Some research indicates that most resolutions are broken or left behind in the first few months of their making. But is that important? Does that matter? Is not the simple recognition that there is room for learning, moving forward, new pursuits, self-understanding, better health or improved relationships enough on its own? By recognising something we make it conscious and that is the vital step. By making changes to facilitate growth we have put something in train. If the final outcome is reached, that is an absolute bonus but, even if it’s not, we have seen a goal in the future and had enough hope to make a statement about it. Once we have begun to find a way to get there, advancement has happened regardless of achievement.

It’s hard not to get the tiniest bit excited about even the imagined clean slate of a new year. The blank canvas possesses so much potential and whether or not we have the means to realise that potential is secondary. The fact that it can encourage us to think about ‘what could be’ and keep us looking ahead is sufficient.

Until later and Happy New Year,

Kirsten

I gave my brother-in-law a new game on the market called Exploding Kittens. In order to win, one must avoid being blown up and be the last person standing. If the player before you lays down an action card that operates to your detriment you are in trouble unless you are in possession of the delightfully-named nope card. The nope card is a flat refusal to act as instructed. It renders ineffectual the action of the presented request and you are free to continue your turn.

I feel it would be useful to have a nope card in life – a totally accepted way to say no thank you, to negate unpleasant circumstances, to gain another chance. No, I am not able to help. No, I won’t accept that. No, this is not the end of the line.

Saying no in our society can be difficult if you are the sort of person that doesn’t like to let others down. There are times, however, when financial, physical, temporal or emotional resources will not allow further involvement or output and an elegant and graceful no will be required. In the absence of a nope card, we must find the strength to say that for ourselves.

In an old episode of the TV series Friends, Phoebe Buffay is asked whether she will help Ross Geller move house. She delivers the wonderful response ‘I’d love to, but I don’t want to.’ It is elegant and is amusing enough to cause no offence. She does not beat herself up about letting Ross down. She has made an honest appraisal and come up with a perfect answer to the question.

The concept of self-care and self-protection is gaining traction. Being able to say no when the affirmative would result in negative impacts on one’s physical and mental health is becoming more acceptable. So, arm yourself with a nope card. It’s nothing personal. It’s just a card.

Until later,

Kirsten

As you may know, I like to paint on paper. I like the way the ink reacts with the absorbent surface. I enjoy the permanency of the marks. I love the feel of the paper – a very heavy watercolour version that weighs in at about 640gsm. It’s almost the stiffness of cardboard and has a most luxurious quality. I use a great deal of water, at times. This allows for an enormous range of intensity of colour. The way the water reacts with the paper is integral to my current style.

There is a big down-side though. For most hanging situations and most sales, the work needs to be framed. Because I work in a fairly large format, the framing is expensive, making the finished piece significantly more costly for the purchaser and, after the seller’s commission is taken, the amount I feel I can claim is reduced, lest the works be priced out of the market.

I was talking to a creative coach the other day who, when I explained this dilemma, questioned why I don’t then paint on canvas. Although I have only used this surface in the past for previous styles of work and only with acrylic paint, I was reluctant to push aside her suggestion without at least thinking about it. I knew that there was a new product on the market that could be painted on canvas to give it an absorbency and, therefore, make it behave more like paper. I resolved to give it a decent try. It could solve a number of problems, after all.

The prepared canvas does not behave like paper, but rather in a strange middle ground between the two surfaces. It has led me to thinking about what becomes acceptable in order to cover as many bases as possible.

Are ‘close’ or ‘a vague approximation’ or ‘nearly’, good enough? Are these simply other words for ‘different and unfamiliar’ or are they genuinely describing a lesser quality or diminished experience? Is it possible to learn to embrace the variations to create a new solution that may be, over all, better than the original? Conversely, will it only ever be ‘as good’ or, worse, ‘adequate’? At what stage does ‘different’ become not even an shadow of the original vision? How long do we persevere before we return to what we know is most suited to us, gives the best result and allows us to do work that we are proud of?

I have two or three prepared canvasses left. I struggle to make the new regime work but will perhaps continue with the remaining materials to know that I have really tried. I don’t think I’m willing to compromise, though, and, quite apart from anything else, the canvas is not as much fun – at this early stage, anyway. I have a stack of paper waiting. I reckon within the week I’ll be back to it.

Until later,

Kirsten

Scared is what you’re feeling. Brave is what you’re doing.

So wrote Emma Donoghue in her novel Room. A shout-out to Alex Mathers, UK-based writer, coach and illustrator, for bringing such a fabulous quote to my attention in his book, Joining the Dots.

Everything is not always as it seems on the outside. We know that. Sometimes such a situation is troublesome and, quite rightly, we are becoming more aware of how much we don’t know about the things going on inside people’s heads. The outside may seem structurally sound while the inside is disintegrating.

Sometimes, though, deliberately donning a chain-mail suit made of links of slightly-bolder-than-we-are-actually-feeling actions can allow us access to thoughts, experiences and opportunities from which our natural tendencies might keep us. ‘Putting ourselves out there’ is a requirement of the artistic life, and of almost every other endeavour, and it’s nice to have the protection of a little faux courage to make it achievable and not crushing should it not go as we’d like.

Scared need not define us. The success of Susan Jeffers’ book, Feel the Fear and Do it Anyway, is testament to the fact that people struggle with the often uncomfortable relationship between feeling and doing. As onlookers, we see the doing aspect and can only guess at the feeling behind it, but it is the doing that achieves things and, for progress in our fields, that’s what we require.

None of this is new. It’s just been brought back to front row and centre. Occasionally, I need a reminder.

Scared is what you’re feeling. Brave is what you’re doing. 

Until later,

Kirsten

I careered headlong into a memory. I was simply making my way and collided, completely unexpectedly, with the back of a solid something from my past. This was no brushing by. Rather, despite its lack of any movement, the object was effective in not letting me continue. I was forced to come to a halt – stopped, quite literally, in my tracks.

With the benefit of hindsight, I can see the memory had always been standing and waiting there, long before I’d come hurtling along. When I so inadvertently found it, I was out of my usual geographic location, not fully aware that this was a place I’d once been – not only just been but in which I’d spent quite some time.

The memory was dusty, having not had the attention it perhaps deserved. It certainly belonged to me but it was tentatively, nonetheless, that I moved to say hello and reacquaint. Once I did, once I extended that tendril of mind, the joy and delight, the glitter and brilliance of those days was real again. I was uplifted, made great.

I wallowed in the memory for a while, soaked up the place and dragged deeper reminiscences to the fore. It became clear, though, that no amount of floating would be enough and, in addition, that this was no more my reality any more than this distant place was my home. I had moved on. All the other cast members had progressed to greater and longer-lasting worlds. This memory was merely a glimpse of time through a half-opened door that had now blown closed, not punitively or for any reason other than simply growing up and apart, but closed.

It was a physical effort, extracting myself from the enveloping mass, but it was also somewhat of a relief to leave behind its intensity. Our waltz had left me in a position to continue my journey which I did, giving a grateful kiss on the cheek and a possible promise to not leave our next meeting for so long. As the distance between us was re-established and the currency of present life curled back around me, I carried the warmth of the memory’s heart that had fused with mine, just for a precious moment.

I am an inveterate maker of lists. Multiple lists, in a notepad and on my phone, and a detailed paper diary keep me on track and rolling along in daily life. More than that, though, they give me security and a sense of being on top of things.

Part of me thinks I keep lists because I am a highly organised person. Perhaps the truth is more in the reverse – that I am a highly organised person because I keep lists. There is probably an element of both operating.

Part of me thinks I keep lists because I harbour a strong streak of laziness. Keeping lists saves me from having to think too much, make too many decisions or carry the stress of having forgotten something.

Alex Mathers, UK-based coach, writer and illustrator, makes the wonderful suggestion, however, that lists take us ‘from what is happening to what is possible’. He is clearly talking about more creative lists such as those containing ideas, plans, goals, steps towards achievement and the like, but the idea resonates enormously.

I could make the stretch and find a way to fit my daily, weekly, monthly, what-to-take-where lists into the realm of the happening to the possible. Better still, I could expand my suite of lists to embrace those more forward-looking examples, particularly in my art world.

Lists are not for everyone, but they work for me. Now, I will cross ‘blog’ off today’s catalogue of tasks and discover what tomorrow will bring.

Until later,

Kirsten

Miriam Schulman is an American artist and art teacher. She is also the brains and voice behind The Inspiration Place podcast where she, and guests, discuss topics relevant to artists at all stages, ranging from finance, overwhelm, motivation, marketing and pricing. Miriam said something the other day that dramatically challenged my thinking and I thought I’d share it with you.

We always talk about gaining confidence. This implies that, in any given field (or even generally), we begin at a point of little confidence and, as our experience grows, we develop the conviction we require to be pleased with our work, to continue with it or to put the results out in the world.

Miriam, however, believes that confidence is our default position. We are born with it. She suggests that a baby learning to walk is secure in the knowledge that they will be able to succeed. Babies don’t say (well, obviously, but you know what I mean) ‘hey Mum, I’ve fallen over three times. I don’t think this walking thing is really for me. I think I’ll give up and move on to something else.’ In the art world, we frequently talk in envious tones about the freedom and unfetteredness of young children’s drawing and painting. They express and experiment without boundaries or judgement. They have confidence built in.

So, is it that we, over time, subconsciously manufacture a lack of confidence? Perhaps it is because of knocks we suffer at the hands of others. Perhaps it is because of comparison with the work of others. Perhaps it is because of a societal bias against being pleased with oneself. Whatever the reason, we perceive that we start with a low degree of faith in ourselves and need to strive to rise above that.

How liberating is the concept that we may already have the mental tools to dive into our pursuits without questioning and doubt? From where I sit, it seems impossible to shift my thinking in such a radical way but, simply by considering it, I am sure at least small steps forward can be made.

With best wishes,

Kirsten

I am currently editing some creative writing. It is an extensive story and is requiring quite a degree of input from me. The job has needed some extensive thought about many aspects of creation, particularly the places of detail and generality (if that’s even a word!) in the progression of a piece.

My prose-writing friends may correct me, and I certainly ask them to do that if I’m off the mark. It seems to me, though, that both detail and generality have their place in writing and, more, are both essential for a quality piece of prose. It is a question of balance, however. A narrative needs just the right amount of each and in the right place. I imagine that is one of the skills of the adept writer – to be able to pinpoint when the reader needs to know the actions, thoughts, words, feelings, body language and idiosyncrasies of a character; the qualities, layout, appearance, sounds or atmosphere of a setting and the boldness, nuances or twists and turns of the plot. Conversely, there are times when information can be alluded to, mentioned in passing or omitted entirely. There needs to be some credit given to the reader for their ability to fill in gaps, to draw conclusions and to manage the ride with both its specifics and surges.

And it is the same in painting, I am reminded, with its detail and generality, specifics and surges. Both intensity of information and places for the viewer to rest and develop their own response make up balance in the work. As in writing, it is those judgment calls – where to put those areas, how many, how often, how close together – that are mastered by the skilled practitioner. Broad brushstrokes, quite literally, can be vital but so can the fine lines and subtle changes in colour, the small shapes and individual points of interest. Detail draws the eye, generality frees the soul. Both are required.

As I go to paint today I will need to assess and make decisions about composition. I will need to deal with the elements that tell the visual story. The art of literature and the visual version have a lot to teach each other.

Until later,
Kirsten

I recently went to a concert. Rod Laver arena was full and the crowd enthusiastic. Expectation was high as one of the select band of international music royalty was the headline act. But first came the warm-up.

He was an up-and-comer, as is usually the way. There was nothing amateurish about him musically and, on stage, he was pleasing to watch. Most important, though, was how his delight at being in the venue, in front of such a crowd and doing the thing he loved warmed our hearts. He fumbled the words at one stage and then confessed, with the broadest of grins, that his wife had just shown up in the audience, surprising him out of performance mode. We were drawn to his humanity, his excitement and the genuineness of his offering. He was a ‘newbie’, learning his craft and revelling in every minute.

And then the main show began. This guy’s presence was immense. He filled the stage, and the auditorium, and the crowd responded with the usual markers of desperate appreciation. This was an assured, confident, engaging, full bodied, magnificent performance by a well-oiled team of musicians and a very experienced practitioner. This was an artist who, in his own words, had been ‘doing this for thirty years’. He had earned his stripes by putting in the time, riding the ups and downs, honing his craft. Sure, there would have been talent there initially but without hard work it would have come to nothing.

I was reminded by this second singer that, to get somewhere we want to go, we have to be patient. We can’t expect to act at the highest level without doing the hard yards. It’s manifestly ridiculous to think that we can step into legendary, or any sort of, status without the years behind us, without the learning and feedback, encouragement and inevitable knocks.

But I was also reminded by the first performer that we can, indeed must, enjoy the journey. While putting in the work we can still passionately embrace what we do. Even if our eye is on a distant prize the small steps are important. More so, they are fun. The little things mustn’t be diminished by some perceived shadow cast by the end goal. Rather they should shine as lights down a nighttime runway, each as vital and as bright as the next.

Long-term and short-term work together. Each day you write or paint or work or read or learn is a jewel in itself as well as being a moment on the way to wherever.

Until later,

Kirsten

The other day I was listening to a song, sung by Tim McGraw. The song was about how our lives get busy and we lose touch with things and people that we once thought were the centre of our worlds.  The line that really stuck with me included the words time gets thin.

Time gets thin.

Like air gets thin at altitude, like our inner resources get thin at times of stress, when we are frantically pulled in many directions with many commitments, time gets thin. It is less substantial, less useful and sustains us to a lesser degree than normal.

Conversely, perhaps, when there is not enough to do or when life is particularly challenging, time gets thick. Perhaps, on these occasions, time is difficult to wade through. It may seem to last forever or its weight may make it difficult to breathe.

We always talk about how time passes slowly or quickly depending on the circumstances. I can’t help thinking now, having heard the song, about how viscous or not the time around me is. Will it evaporate to nothing like methylated spirits or hang heavily like a gel?

So, here’s hoping that your time today has an excellent, middle-ground consistency!

Until later,
Kirsten

Some days there’s just not much happening upstairs!!

Until next time,

Kirsten

I read the other day that there is a mathematical suggestion? theory? fact? that the distance between zero and one is greater than the distance between one and two, or any other adjacent numbers. Of course, ‘distance’ refers to the mathematical separation between the whole numbers involved and is thus an imaginary concept.

Now, I don’t know whether this suggestion is true. I must admit that I can’t see how it is and I’m not sure that I could grasp the maths involved anyway, even if my rudimentary googling turned up anything helpful, which is hasn’t. It may be that it is one of those interesting calculations involving zero that seem to produce surprising results and often become novelty items.

But let’s assume there’s a modicum of science behind it. Someone must have theorised about it for a reason. So, the distance between zero and one is greater than the distance between other whole numbers. In other words, the distance between nothing and something is greater than the distance between something and something more. In those terms, in our life applications, it is obviously true.

Starting something is the hardest part. Going on with it is less difficult. Going from a point of rest to a point of action requires strength and determination to overcome inertia. Going from something to the next thing requires perserverence but is assisted by momentum. It is, perhaps, an easier state to reach.

There will be mathematicians who fume at this leap of logic and I am more that willing to accept that I’ve drawn a long bow. It’s on my mind, though. And now, perhaps, it’s on yours!

Until later,
Kirsten

I like the word robust.

I like the way it sounds. In its quietly onomatopoeic way, it sounds as it suggests. It is a solid word, not flippant. Two unassuming syllables provide for a grounded pronunciation. It draws out a tone lower in our range. It is not a decorative word. It is foundational.

I like what it means: Strong, healthy, vigorous. Able to withstand or overcome adverse conditions. It is good, wholesome stuff that we can, I guess, aspire to.

Most of all, though, I like how it applies. A robust practice would not be buffeted. It would not slide away in less than ideal situations. It would become an anchor in itself.

I like the word robust.

Kirsten