I love meeting folk at an art fair, hearing what collectors are looking for, finding out what they see in my work, and sharing my inspiration.
But the challenging and often joyful work of creation happens when I’m alone in my studio.
As I work away, with no one watching or commenting or even cocking an eyebrow, I feel free. I forget about how you’re “supposed to” do it and find my own way. I improvise. I try. I discover. Some things work out. Some things don’t. I am both playful and relentless, carefree and completely serious.
I’ve received valuable information, insight, and support from studying with established artists. My artist friends provide critiques and are incredible sources of support and information. But in the end, what I make and how I make it is up to me.
Being alone frees something. For a time, I forget everything except what I’m doing. Fairly regularly I find myself in a wonderful state of flow, where time seems to open up. Choices around colour and composition seem to come from listening to something within that is surefooted and subtle.
Working this way I feel I’m getting closer and closer to myself.
Not who I think I should be, or who others ask me to be—but closer to something true. Something that feels close to the best of my childhood self—inquisitive, brave, experimental, unconcerned, a touch obsessive, and full of shameless confidence.
This is one of the many reasons I paint. As I hone in on an authentic way to paint, I’m also honing in on my self.
diagram by Csikszentmihalyi M. from
Finding Flow: The Psychology of Engagement with Everyday Life.
Getting into the flow
Much has been written on the pleasures and benefits of being in a flow state, or the zone. After decades of creative work in music, poetry, and painting, I’m finding my way there regularly.
I still get stuck and have rotten studio days where I flit about and seem to do more harm than good. But showing up daily has its merits—and one of them has been more regular access to flow state.
While flow is lovely, nurturing a longer attention span and doing one thing for a long, uninterrupted stretch of time is a reward in itself. I believe it contributes to the sense of peace viewers often find in my paintings.
Notifications, text messages, ever quicker edits in video and mainstream film—the accelerating sense of speed and interruption in our lives cater to (and contributes to) our deteriorating attention spans.
Things are gained with speed. But things are lost too. When I’m alone in my studio, I feel like I’m bucking the trend a bit, and building an attention span that’s long, deep, and strong.
Top image: of course, I am never truly alone. Harriet is ever present.
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Well said Lindsay
Thanks for reaching Cherie!