I’m someone who’s particularly given to finding and sticking to a routine, so it’s no surprise that my life in lockdown already has a well worn cadence. It’s a comforting pattern of running, working, cooking, reading, watching Netflix, and reading. I’m glad of my routine. Routine offers a safety net and a sense of regular time, both of which seem to have been lost to the shrinking of my daily life to the same four walls.
But I have to admit that the comfort of that pattern has become a very softly padded creative prison. I’m really struggling to find new ideas and break out of old styles.
The power of this blog for me lies in the fact that it’s a space to unpick the everyday and understand more about how what’s around us can hold beauty and has been/can be designed to be better. So, I decided to revisit a couple of older posts, including one on taking idea adventures, and decided to set myself a challenge.
On Wednesday 24th June, I had to take time every hour for twelve hours 8am-8pm (roughly) to find something that could inspire me and illustrate it. It was a challenge to stop and look outside of my normal routine and find unusual angles, everyday wonders, and little joys.
While I didn’t quite make every hour in time, these are the twelve moments from what could have just been another day that made it something special.
Recently, the idea of learning in the open has been on my mind a lot.
There have been two main drivers. First, I’ve personally felt and heard lots of other people talking about a fear to say the wrong thing in regards to Black Lives Matter, not because we didn’t believe the message or want to fight for justice and equity, but because there seemed to be so many ways we might get it wrong while we tried to learn to be better allies in the open. Second, I’ve been drawn to making more and not wanting to share it here or on social media, because I wanted to feel free again.
This blog is probably the closest I’ve gotten to truly learning in the open. I was always the kid who wouldn’t share work until it was done. But here, in part because of the fact I’ve been sharing for years, there are plenty of learnings in progress that I’ve shared in case others are on the same journey for want of a better word.
Yet as much as I know those moments of learning and growth were important to getting me to where I am today. I very rarely reshare them, because I’ve changed since and because I wouldn’t want this blog or me by extension to be judged on what I thought 3 years ago. I’m sure I’ll probably think the same about this in 3 years too.
When you learn in the open online, there’s always a record. That record can be searched and brought up years later, for better or worse. How many times have we seen someone ‘cancelled’ because of something they tweeted years before whether they had grown since or not?
However, if we never learn in the open and we never share how slow progress can be surely it dissuades others from even starting the process. If you can only be an expert or a master of a craft or nothing, where is the recognition that no one gets there overnight, especially when it’s learning that has to be done outside of the classroom.
So, largely for myself, I wanted to make the case for both learning in solitude and learning in the open, to try to work out which I want to do.
The case for learning in solitude
Away from prying eyes, you can experiment free of judgement. You can go wherever your learning takes you with no responsibility or sense that it needs to conform. This freedom can be particularly liberating when it comes to creative work. Sketchbooks that include tests and scraps can inspire bigger works, without needing to be finished pieces themselves.
You are free to shape your own opinion on the subject matter, following your reading and intuition. You are in charge of your own curriculum and can draw connections between whatever insights you’ve found, without a sense of needing to fit them into convention.
When it comes to learning more important topics, if you take the time to learn on your own, to make your own progress, you may be less likely to say something out of turn that could hurt others.
The case for learning in the open
When you learn in the open, you lose some of that self-initiated freedom. But you gain the potential to be challenged and to be introduced to new ideas that you might not have found yourself. You might be directed to different subjects or course corrected by someone with lived experience.
Someone might see something in the works in progress that you share that you might not have seen on your own, whether that’s their good or their bad qualities or their harmonies with other works.
Someone might also resonate with your progress and be inspired to make their own, seeing how far you’ve come or how close you are. You might learn together. You might learn in parallel. You might lead their learning.
Learning in the open and learning in solitude have their pros and cons. Depending on what you’re learning, how you’re learning and why, you might find one or the other works best for you.
I typically end up doing something of a hybrid between the two; I spend time getting to grips with the basics alone then share what I learned in hindsight. I think that’s where I’m likely to stay for the majority of my work.
That said, I don’t think we shouldn’t share because we are afraid to fail. There is so much value to having a space to play and learn and experiment on your own. But there is so much more to be lost from never learning in the open because we feel too fragile to accept a stumble or a critique.
I have definitely fallen into that camp, and oftentimes still do. I was an overachiever at school and now my sense of self can be so fragile that the slightest perception of failure threatens the careful balance I’ve been working on since I was 5. That’s something I’m working on. That’s something I think we should all be working on.
We need to normalise receiving new information and changing our opinions. We need to practise taking feedback (and giving feedback) in a way that’s positive and not defensive. We need to find a way to make it okay to be a work in progress in the open again, because that’s what we all are, works in progress.
Barbara Hepworth is one of my favourite artists of all time. I’ve visited her sculptures up and down the country and there’s always something so present and grounding about them, that they make me feel better no matter how discombobulated I might feel.
So, I thought, I’d turn to her work to give me a bit of inspiration and to ground me in these strange times. I’ve not done many artist studies since I was at school. But there was always something liberating and perspective changing about trying to get under the skin of someone else’s work. Plus, my favourite blog posts are the ones that involve a bit of research. So, I’m going to try something a bit old school with this one.
For those of you who aren’t familiar with Barbara Hepworth, she’s one of Britain’s most important twentieth-century artists. Born in Wakefield in 1903, she was a pioneer of organic abstract sculpture and is often discussed alongside her contemporary Henry Moore. She’s best known for her pierced Modernist forms which were made from alabaster, marble, bronze, wood, and aluminum and grew in scale throughout the years. Those sculptures were deeply connected to the human form but also the form of the landscapes they were made in whether that was West Yorkshire, Italy or St Ives.
There’s no one who can speak more eloquently about Barbara Hepworth’s work than the lady herself, so I’ve taken five quotes from her writings to see what I can learn about art, life and how to get the most out of them both.
Extracts from Barbara Hepworth, A Pictorial Autobiography, Bath, 1971
Hepworth was a leading figure in the the method of direct carving, meaning she made her pieces herself from her chosen material rather than making models for craftsmen to then turn into the final piece, as had been the norm. She spent years in Italy learning her craft and how to work with the materials. This connection between her work and her physicality, comes across as almost giddily empowering in her description. I’m always striving for that sense of being so truly in my body while making, and it’s a wonderful cry for craft and getting in touch with the power of connecting your “mind and hand and eye.”
Extracts from Michael Shepherd, Barbara Hepworth, London, 1963
First of all, I love that Hepworth made her sculptures to be touched and I am always fighting the urge to put my hands on the wooden pieces I see in museums. Second the idea that “there’s no fixed point for a sculpture, there’s no fixed point at which you can see it, there’s no fixed point of light in which you can experience it, because it’s ever-changing,” (First retrospective in 1968) is something that changed how I interact with both sculptures and the world more generally. The conditions that align around every experience we have with an artwork are different, meaning every viewing is unique. That’s the same whether the sculpture is a Hepworth or the lamp post outside your house. The more we make our experiences vulnerable to these changes in context and environment, the more life they have and the more variation we’re able to see.
Extracts from ‘Barbara Hepworth – “the Sculptor carves because he must”‘, The Studio, London, vol. 104, December 1932, p. 332
One of the reasons Hepworth took up direct carving was so that she could work with the unique qualities of materials she was using. Their designs had to be harmonious with their substance and the making was a conversation between her desire and the material’s nature. Taking the time to understand what you’re working with, whether that’s “stones and woods”, people, or a space, should always be the first step in a craft. If you don’t know its strengths and its needs, how can you make the most of them? I think that’s also true in life more generally, you have to work with what’s around you and understand that the best “most direct way through” is dealing with a situation “according to its nature” rather than always what you thought would be best at first.
Extracts from Barbara Hepworth, A Pictorial Autobiography, Bath, 1971
While Hepworth “asked simply to be treated as a sculptor (never a sculptress), irrespective of sex” (Alan Bowness), it feels wrong to consider her work without the context that she was living through. Hepworth was a wife and a mother at a time when those things came with implicit and explicit expectations of domestic work. She took long breaks from making when she had to care for her children, and was only able to focus on her creative pursuits when supported by nannies or her children being old enough to care for themselves. But she saw these shifts in focus to and from her caring responsibilities just as part of a “rich life”. She was a woman getting the most out of her days. But in order to do that she had to find time, even in an unbalanced weighting, to have a little focus on each part.
Extract from ‘Approach to Sculpture’, The Studio, London, vol. 132, no. 643, October 1946
Hepworth is best known for her pierced forms, sculptures you can look, reach and sometimes even climb through. Opening up her pieces also “open[ed] up an infinite variety of” other shapes. Whenever I look through one of her sculptures, I’m taken back to that quote and the idea that creating space within something can make it so much fuller, whether that’s leaving space for interpretation and imagination in what you create or giving yourself space in your day. I think there’s also something poetic about seeing what you create as a lens for the world. The work isn’t the thing, it’s where you get to when you’ve gone all the way through it to the other side.
Those are just five (well six) of my favourite quotes and lessons from Barbara Hepworth. The longer you spend with any piece, the more you can give it your full attention the more you can learn about and from it. I really enjoyed taking this time to focus and be led by Hepworth’s writings on her own work, it felt like a personal conversation rather than a passing glance or skipped through algorithmic recommendation of what to look at next, pausing with intention felt particularly important right now. I’d encourage anyone to do it if they can, whether you pause with your favourite artist, craft, nature or something else.
I didn’t start this year with many resolutions or goals. But I did make an active decision to turn my recent attempts to try to learn new crafting skills into an annual tradition. Over the past little while, I’ve tried to teach my hands to do something new every year whether that’s an intro to throwing pottery on a wheel, carving jewellery from wax, screen printing, or woodcarving. This year I’m going to, hopefully, learn how to weave.
I’ve gained so much through dedicating time to crafting. As someone who spends most of their day on the computer, whether that’s in the office or illustrating digitally, I think I need to make the effort to remember that my hands can do more than just make pixels appear on a screen. That’s probably why I love cooking and DIY too.
So I wanted to try to articulate that love of making and create something of a manifesto for making to try and get more people relearning how to use their hands with me.
Let’s start at the end and unravel the experience together.
Using the thing
Whenever you use something you’ve made with your own two hands, you get to relive the joy of its creation. Every wobble and groove tells a story. I have a set of wonky little bowls, which are more tiny trays because they’re so shallow, that I would never find a use for if I’d bought them. But every time I have a snack I want to put them in my little bowl because I made it.
A finished thing
After a few ugly stages, there’s always a magical moment when you’re making something with your hands when you can see the final product start to appear. In that moment I like to look back to the materials I started with, whether that’s a round of wax that turned into a ring, a log that turned into a spoon, some yarn that turned into a tapestry, some clay that turned into a bowl, and reflect on the alchemy my hands have managed.
Making the thing
When people describe making as meditative, I don’t think they mean that they aren’t thinking about anything but rather that they’re using their whole mind to think about one thing. That kind of focus in the attention economy feels like an act of rebellion almost. You can’t be texting at the same time, whatever is in your hands has to be your primary focus. It’s slow and steady (unless you’re a speed knitter). It’s a respite from a fast paced digital world. Pulling screen prints is simple but there’s a careful balance of physical actions you need to focus on everytime you roll the weegie across the silk.
Learning the skill
When I went woodcarving we were given one simple mantra: the knife won’t do anything you don’t tell it to. That to me translated as, when you’re carving wood you have to mean it. You make a decision about where you’re trying to get to. Then you make a decision about what you want the next cut to do. Then you decide on the best technique to use. Then you do it, as decisively as you can.Those long, clean, curling shavings only happen when you know what you want to tell the wood and you say it clearly. I found a lot of mental respite in focusing on learning technique, on making those shavings and being a beginner.
Imagining
If there’s magic in seeing something appear out of raw materials through your hard work, there’s just as much magic in starting with nothing and just imagining what’s possible. It’s a conversation between you and the material. The first step into the world of making things bey hand is one you have to take together with the environment you’re in. I think that’s what I love the most about crafting, particularly outdoors. It reminds you that you’re part of the physical world and you have just as much ability to shape that world, to make it beautiful, purposeful, or fun, as anyone (or anything) else.
A manifesto
So that’s it, my manifesto for making. If you love to craft or haven’t made anything since you were in school, I’d love to hear from you and to hear about what you and your hands will make next. I’m always up for new crafting inspiration.
I still haven’t learned to knit and I’d love to try wood turning, because I had so much fun carving last year. But I’m taking it one skill at a time. I’ll keep you updated on my journey into weaving.
FYI I book all of my classes in London through Obby. If you’re interested in trying it out (it’s got all kinds of classes from crafters across the city), you can get £10 off your first class. This isn’t sponsored, it’s just a super useful service, but that is my referral code.
Do you ever see or do something small and have the instant realisation “this is a metaphor for …”?
I had one of those lightbulb moments of self-awareness while I was away in Cornwall last year. I was on a walk and I’d intended to follow a certain coastal route which took me around the headland and then across a beach while the tide was low. I’d made it round the first section of headland, taking off about seven layers as I went. I’m always overly cautious about layering. The start of the descent to the beach was just some stairs followed by a little viewing platform. But then there was a series of jagged rocks I would have had to scramble down.
I stood on that viewing platform not taking in the view but trying to work out a route down for a good 15 minutes. Or at least it was enough for a father and son playing football on the beach to have cocked their heads.
I couldn’t do it.
I don’t like having unsure footing, particularly if I’m going down, particularly if there’s an audience.
So, instead, I headed back up to the headland and found an alternative route round – the long way. It probably took me an extra hour, perhaps more. But that extra hour of sand dunes, wildflowers and well worn paths was probably my favourite hour of walking the whole trip.
I will always take the long route. I know there’s a sea of rhetoric and advice about working smarter and not harder, about risk and reward. But I’m happy to stroll slowly, to walk a little longer or a little further and enjoy the way round. I can get lost on solid ground, but I need the ground to be solid.
Quite often I work harder not smarter – to type that feels like an exposing admission in an age of productivity. I’ve done it since I was a child. I undertook art projects of vast scale and repetition. I solved maths problems (at least once) through brute force. I learned facts I needed to wrote style.
I find there’s a comfort in working through the work.
I was reminded of that feeling at the start of this year as I sat down to make my goals for the year. This is the first year I’ve not felt myself striving to take a ladder upwards. Where I’d been following a clearly signposted route for most of my career (university, graduate training, metropolitan elite type job), now I’ve been left to my own devices I want to explore a little more. I could keep racing up, but I think I’d like to look around for a while.
I’m not scared of falling so much anymore, in both the metaphorical and literal sense (I conquered those rocks later that same year). But I remember that headland walk so fondly that I’m not ready to let go of the idea of just trying to see what’s on the level around me, to have an experience that’s broad and full of detours where you see more.
In A Field Guide to Getting Lost, Rebecca Solnit makes reference to the Tibetan word for track, shul. “A path is a shul because it is an impression in the ground left by the regular tread of feet, which has kept it clear of obstructions and maintained it for the use of others.”
There’s a sense of community in taking or even just touching on the path, the shul, well worn. Where we give ourselves time to wander more, we can find more common ground.
There’s also an ability to clear space in your mind to explore through repetition because your regular tread of thinking has kept it clear. That’s how habits work. You wear down a clear path in your mind, then when you have to do a thing your path to the next action is clear of obstruction and so easy to follow you can do it without thinking.
There’s also so much to discover when you take the long route. While short challenges push us, long exertions give us time to look around and reflect.
While we should carve our own tracks and I’m certainly not advocating avoiding everything that’s intimidating – fear based decisions can be so limiting. But I want to make something of a call to take the long way some of the time.
So I’m going to keep taking the long route, not just because I don’t like jagged rocks.
