I have not put pen, pastel, or paint, to paper or panel since mid November.
Writing that I have not made anything recently has an almost confessional feel to it; what is an artist when not engaged with their materials? In contrast to the usual 'studio update', there is nothing new to report this time. Instead I would like to reflect upon my experience of 'not-making.'
There are of course many reasons why an artist (of any sort) would not make work for a period of time. These can often be characterised by there being either too little of something necessary to create — inspiration, confidence, materials, space, opportunity, energy, etc. Or, too much — work, childcare, other commitments, distraction, multi-tasking, risk, and so on. By themselves these can all be perfectly understandable reasons for not creating, only becoming excuses when the story we are telling ourselves (and probably others) serves to lead us further from the 'essential ground' of our creative endeavors.
For me the studio absence of the past few months has been the result of a more deliberate choice, to consciously leave art making alone for a while, and in so doing to also let myself alone. This felt appropriate in terms of seasonality, and as winter developed it suddenly seemed like a strange and impossible time to be making anything at all, as if it would be going against the flow of life.
The increasing emphasis on social media engagement also came to feel like an ever rising tide. Exacerbated by the 'lockdown', and other forms of relating becoming two dimensional, I found myself saying "no, not for now," and cutting my usage right down. I usually enjoy seeing what other people are making, and tailor my social media 'feeds' to prioritise this. But without the reciprocity of sharing, and the increasingly selective algorithms narrowing the range of what was visible, during this time 'feed' became 'fodder'—something I was being given repeatedly—as opposed to seeking out the nourishment I required.
Letting alone
In 'Close In', the poet David Whyte implores us . . .
Start with
the ground
you know,
the pale ground
beneath your feet,
your own
way to begin
the conversation.
Start with your own
question,
give up on other
people’s questions,
don’t let them
smother something
simple.
So there is a coming back to familiar ground, a sloughing off of the questions, pressures, and intentions which no longer serve the creative purpose. And sometimes this ground beneath our feet, like all fertile soil, needs to rest, with no demands made of it.
In Consolations, Whyte describes the qualities of 'Withdrawal.' I think this paragraph will speak to many, with relevance to numerous aspects of life.
"...can be the very best way of stepping forward and done well, a beautiful freeing act of mercy and as an art form, underestimated in this time of constant action and engagement. So much of what we are involved with, in even the highest cause, become involvement at the busy periphery, where the central conversation has been lost to the outer edges of what was to begin with, a very simple central invitation. Withdrawal is often not what it looks like - a disappearance - no, to withdraw from entanglement can be to appear again in the world in a very real way and begin the process of renewing the primary, essential invitation again.
Though life does seem determined to be a beautiful, and entrancing distraction - just as we ourselves are a distraction to others, testing them as we test ourselves and our mutual sincerity - our participation in this dance of distraction also makes more real, and more necessary, our ability to return to essential ground, to an essential person or an essential work."
Rejuvenation
So in this way we can appreciate 'not-doing' as a definitive act. Rather than a 'giving up', it becomes a 'giving over', to that "central conversation" and "essential ground." This points to the importance of cultivating an invitational presence, allowing ourselves to be met by the world, in contrast to our culture's usual extraverted methods of defining oneself and work.
