I tidied my studio the other day in preparation for a visit by a couple of arts people. As it turned out, we postponed but the tidiness remained.

It wasn’t a ‘put a few things away’ type of tidy. It was a ‘move everything off the floor, re-stack paintings, fold up tables, wipe benches, put away drop-sheets and vacuum up off-cuts of threads, daddy-long-legs, webs, a floor-layer of slater skeletons under the furniture, and dirt brought in from outside’ type of clean.

It was a bit like a ‘brain clean’ – similar to a holiday or time spent revelling in joyful company. Afterwards, I simply sat in it for a while – for quite a while. I had to weigh up the mess of restarting creative activity and the enjoyment of the pristine space.

I took a day or so, in the same way it takes us a period to get back into the ‘real world’ and its potential brain-mess after a break away. My art is still contained in a way that remains tidyish. To truly free-up I feel I will need to make a visible impact on what is still a fairly rarified atmosphere. Then, the sky will reinstate itself as a limit.

Until later,

Kirsten

You know how it is. Someone’s name is completely gone. You have no recollection of why you walked into the kitchen. You have to check how to spell a word that usually flows easily. Mental blanks. Little gaps that stop us, can embarrass us, make us feel a bit silly.

I’m wondering, though, can a mental blank last longer than a few moments or minutes. I’m not talking about illnesses, or the challenges some face with ageing. I’m talking about a common mental blank that lasts days, or months, or years.

As you know, I write poetry – or I used to. I have had a complete blank for what seems like an age. It’s not that I’ve been writing and it’s rubbish. It’s not that I’ve retreated to dabbling. There is simply nothing there. I don’t see things in the world the way I did. They aren’t the same fodder for words.

It’s an enormous mental blank but I’m trying not to worry. A mental blank passes, doesn’t it? It’s just funny that some switch got flicked to turn poetry off. I have confidence it will flick back, though. All good. Patience.

So, what was I saying just now?

Until later,

Kirsten

My Apple Watch reminded me every twenty minutes or so I was in a ‘loud environment’ and that encountering those decibels for an extended time (for example, the two and a half hours of a Keith Urban concert) could result in hearing damage. Not surprisingly, I couldn’t hear the alerts.

Last night, Keith was the consummate entertainer, as always. What is most impressive, most engaging, about all his performances is he genuinely appears to be having the best time ever. He exudes utter joy in performing and in building a relationship with his audience. The joy is absolutely infectious and, last night, the 20,000 at Qudos Bank Arena were hooked.

During the drive home, I was wondering about creatives and the way we ‘speak’ to our respective audiences. How can we inject our work with the great fun we (usually) find in our practice? How can we show we’re having a ball in a painting, or in a poem, or in music? Certainly, we need to maintain proficiency, but how do we exude the ‘having a blast’ vibes in those direct or indirect relationships we have with viewers, readers or listeners?

I don’t have answers yet, but the question will consume my thoughts for the next little while. Maybe you’ve got it sorted?

Until later,

Kirsten

We have some sheep. They keep the grass down and, as it happens, keep us entertained with their lambs – hysterical creatures with their knobbly knees and lunatic gambolling.

Only two of the twenty-odd adult sheep have names: one came to us with the name Nugget, reflecting his unwillingness to be told what to do. The other I have named in the wake of the lamb influx. She is Mumma.

Mumma is the ugliest sheep in the mob. What remains of her mystifying half-fleece dangles on the ground. She has bulbous eyes and a growth on her neck.

But she has the funniest personality of all of them. She will eat from our hands, get under our feet when we feed out hay and is reluctant to move away if we approach. We can scratch her behind the ears and she will run for great distances, her lamb struggling to keep up, if she thinks we have food.

It’s a salient reminder for me, this utterly unappealing and undesirable sheep with the best and most delightful qualities.

What was that thing about books and covers?

Until later,

Kirsten

I have been listening to two of Australia’s great singers: soprano Sara Macliver and mezzo-soprano Sally-Anne Russell. What struck me this morning was that their sound, their music, appeared to be completely untethered. Whether they were soaring, or providing richness, or dancing between each other, there seemed no restriction and, more importantly today, no binding to the earth. The sound, the human singing, was completely free of bonds.

It would be terrific to be able to harness (which in itself is a contradiction) this sense of ‘untetheredness’ for so many of our pursuits. Tomorrow, I am hanging my new exhibition and I know there are elements of some paintings that are very tethered. I think there are also untethered moments which will, I imagine, shine for me once the works are on the wall.

Tethering places restrictions on us – how we feel, what we do, how satisfied we are with our achievements. When tethered to whatever ‘ground’ may hold us back, we are limiting ourselves.

I am going to try, in the style of great classical singing, to remain untethered; to strive for a freedom both in my work and in my evaluation of it. Perhaps, even, in every aspect of life.

With best wishes, and no strings attached,

Kirsten

One of the things we hear constantly in the artistic life is don’t compare yourself to others. What a simple phrase – something we can toss off at the drop of a hat, glibly recite to our colleagues when their confidence is wavering, say to ourselves when we don’t really like what we’ve produced.

Yes. What a simple phrase. And, let’s face it, one that is almost completely useless. I mean, who can carve out a creative career without comparison? We all do it, all the time, for all the elements of our practice.

Maybe comparison doesn’t always get us down – some sort of immunity or resistance cuts in. Maybe seeing an artwork that speaks to you, or reading a poem that captures life, or listening to music that shifts the world, doesn’t necessarily crush our ambitions – and that’s great – but let’s not pretend we don’t look at our own work, at least for a little while, in the light of something we may perceive as different.

Hats off to those who don’t – if you exist. More strength to you. And best wishes to those who, even occasionally, compare themselves to others and find they are even more pleased with their work.

Whether there’s a positive outcome or a fleeting negative one, comparison happens. I imagine it happens in every type of work. Perhaps it even has the power to spur us to new heights. So we shouldn’t be scared. It’s just a thing.

Until next time,

Kirsten

On Friday night, my daughter and I went to a concert given by country music superstar Luke Combs and three support acts. The venue was Marvel Stadium in Melbourne, seating (and standing) up to 50,000 people. High-octane, adrenaline-inducing stuff. Turns out you can hear 50,000 singing voices over the body-massaging decibels of a rock concert. What an atmosphere!

On Saturday night I went to what is, I suspect, the opposite musical experience. Mezzo-soprano Sally-Anne Russell sang Canteloube’s Chants d’Avergne in the Brunswick Uniting Church. It was moving, supremely skilful and attended by about eighty people who knew that any singing from the audience would have caused an unholy riot!

It was exciting to have two such different, but equally wonderful, concerts on consecutive nights! Each heightened the other. In art, they say creating contrasts—perhaps in colour, shape, light or dark—will inspire in our audiences moments of particular attention or, at at the very best, thrills. 

I guess we have the same contrasts in our lives—sudden changes, ups and downs, shifting shades, differences and opposites. There are moments of particular attention. And thrills. After this weekend, I am reminded to accept, or better, to revel in those opposites; to draw them all in and give them their due.

Have a great day. 

Until later,

Kirsten

It is spring. Late spring. I think the crazy growth happening in the garden will be gradually slowing, particularly as the weather heats up. They say this weekend will get to thirty-five. I despair for my much-loved lawn.

During the last couple of months, though, the dominance of the cape weed in my grass has been a stark reminder of the virulence of weeds at this time of year. The yellow cape weed flowers—those ones we used to make daisy chains as children—mock me! I mow, as low as practical, and appear to remove the bulk of them, but it is literally only hours before they rear their heads again, or sprout new ones, and disturb the green expanse I love so much.

Someone once said weeds were simply plants in the wrong place. I’d like to believe that but it is difficult. Although I no longer have garden beds, I know a forest of weeds among the roses is frustrating and time-consuming. Not to mention, a spoiler of the peaceful and tended look one is trying to create.

Things in the wrong place. Applies to so many situations. That’s why we tidy, or clean or, in the reverse, stick within a comfort zone, thus avoiding the potential of being that very thing that’s wandered out of its acceptable or manageable space. We’ve all been in a state of feeling we don’t belong. Usually, no one ‘weeds’ us, or flings broad-leaf spray at us, but it can certainly be uncomfortable both for our own sense of self and for those around.

Although in a civilised society we don’t condone getting rid of elements that are out of place, I think, in the garden, we can still pull out the oxalis and reduce the cape weed. The alternative is, of course, to learn to love them.

It’s difficult.

Kirsten

I’m playing with ink and the edge of an old Medicare card—a perfect tool for scraping and spreading.

Sometimes the ink ends up so thinly spread it’s transparent. In a way that’s kind of nice—it covers a large area and the beauty underneath is evident, but the colour is significantly diminished.

Sometimes the ink is spread, but not so far. Its colour is richer but it can cover up some patterns—sometimes desirable, sometimes not. A medium spread creates a solid block that, depending on its darkness, can be worked over again later.

Sometimes the ink is in a drop, not spread at all. The colour is saturated, sometimes beyond easy recognition but it gives all its intensity to one place and provides a strong focal point.

Sounds a bit like human beings in the modern world?

How are you spread today?

Until next time,

Kirsten

I’m not very good at it. Play, I mean.

One of the goals in some artistic schools of thought (and one that I subscribe to wholeheartedly) is that it is best, or vital, to free ourselves from the expectations and, particularly, the judgements of adulthood and get back to the purity and unfettered-ness of children and their drawing, painting and making.

As we get older, fears of failure, not being like others or, artistically, looking like an amateur begin to creep in and our art can become contrived. It loses its immediacy, its honesty, its connection to us.

With no commitments, no exhibitions, no requirements other than to regain a dormant art practice, now is the perfect time to play—get out the gear and see what happens.

But it is surprisingly, and ridiculously, difficult for me! I can’t help but assess each mark, judge the artistic value of a certain direction, compare my deliberately-painted-on-scrap-paper creations to what has gone before.

In other parts of our life, we are encouraged to take on the mantle of adult-ness. In fact, those who resist can be irritating or even damaging. I can see that, creatively, open, childlike play is liberating, but I haven’t quite found a way to practise like that.

Yet. Maybe that should be my goal for the year. No more than that—and what a valuable achievement it would be.

Good luck with your own play,

Until later,

Kirsten

I’m between the first two days of a four-day conference. It’s not often us arty-types have conferences. This one deals with the running of a creative business.

Firstly, I should point out that ‘four days’ is misleading. Two blocks of two days each are separated by five weeks, obviously to let one’s brain recover from explosion. Four days on the trot may lead to a degree of inefficiency, at the very least, or complete meltdown at the worst.

Not that it’s bad. Oh no. Quite the opposite—so much good information one struggles to find room to shove it all in for later.

Secondly, I should say the presenter is excellent. I feel totally secure in the sense that she knows stuff. That is enormously comforting—money and time is being invested by the dozen or so participants and it is great we don’t have to sit on tenterhooks watching out for dubious statements.

She’s not the only person who knows stuff, of course. In their field of work or interest, everyone knows stuff—significant amounts of stuff— and it is all too rare we see that flowing out of even the people close to us. It can be literally awesome to be present when someone’s knowledge is set free, and most moving when that happens in a quiet and non-self conscious way.

And the best people to listen to are those who don’t realise their knowledge is special, who think their stuff is just the stuff of every day and even everybody. There is no ‘splaining from these people, but rather a musing or discussion or casual comments of great moment.

I will enjoy today, catching further treasures from our presenters stuff. I’ll also try to be on the alert for stuff in the participants. I’m not always good at that.

May you enjoy your own stuff. In fact, may you revel in it. Someone will be overawed.

Until later,

Kirsten

I have anticipation. It’s been building for a couple of weeks and, today, hits crisis point!

I was intrigued by the word as well. Anti-something, perhaps? That would be fun.

Looking back through the etymology, the 15th and 16th centuries are pretty dull in their development. It’s only when you get back to Latin (as is so often the case) that things get more interesting.

The prefix was originally, of course, ante- (with an e rather than i) meaning before. In later times, ante- morphed to anti- (in a way it didn’t do in antecedent, antenatal and the like). Capare, means (or meant) to take.

Anticipate. To take before. And so, I have been taking before in a big way, and a great deal before!

Today, though, it happens. Anticipation will be resolved and, like a child’s Christmas or that burnt-into-our-adult-consciousness last day of school, it will be most exciting.

What are you anticipating? May it be with delight.

Until later,

Kirsten

I was watching a course on YouTube yesterday—a coaching, let’s-get-your-art-fired-up sort of thing. Although, so far, I’ve only managed the first half-an-hour of four, there’s been something I’ve been intrigued by.

The task was to think about ‘how you want your art to FEEL in the future’. Not look, not sell, not depict, but feel. Some people came up with free, confident, honest. I haven’t quite found a word for myself yet.

It’s all about feeling though, isn’t it. From ‘I feel like a coffee’ to ‘I feel cold’, from ‘I feel concerned’ to ‘I feel this decision is right’, feelings guide us most of the time.

Of course, sometimes we think, and that’s important, but often the feeling is the confirmation, or the ultimate motivator, or the sensory measure.

Perhaps I want my art to feel worthwhile. I’ll sit with that for a time and see if it feels like a comfortable fit.

Until later, feel happy,

Kirsten

In a few weeks I move into a new studio. There is, not surprisingly, a house attached to the move and that will have joys and quirks of its own, but it is in the studio that I can most readily picture myself. The building is an old stone dairy that has been renovated. The space is about six times that of my current set-up, it has white walls, north-facing windows and a concrete floor that won’t complain about paint or ink or water.

The prospect of a new studio inspires great excitement: about settling in and making it ‘just so’, and about what might result artistically from a new space and new view. I am keen to have it organised, not too cluttered and a space where other things like music or sewing or sitting in an armchair in the sun might take place.

New things so often result in us taking a new attitude. Whether it is the hopeful resolutions of the New Year, the determination that a new garden will stay under control, the care we take with a new possession, the new in life is a special thing.

As is the old, of course: old friends, precious family, our elderly dogs, antique treasures, valuable traditions. It is that nondescript middle ground that is my undoing—a bit of complacency, lack of excitement, routine, just chugging along and letting things slide.

And its funny that we so often need something new to trigger a move out of that mire—a new challenge, new situation. What stops us making a wholesale shift in the midst of the messy middle? Is it too hard to change tack when we are a little becalmed?

I am lucky to have something new that I can vow to take care of better than I’ve managed in the past. Now I wonder, though, what I can do better before then—flip the usual ‘waiting for the change’ on its head and turn over a new leaf in some small way now. Today, perhaps.

Until later,

Kirsten

I have pulled out my watercolour painting kit to keep me rolling along while my studio is out of action. It’s fun to go back to where it all started, rediscover (hopefully!) those skills, practice drawing again and work on a smaller scale for a change.

I was painting yesterday. I had a drawing of some wallflowers I was pleased with and I was keen to explore the unusual orange/reds and pink/purples of the blooms. But I rushed. I got too bold. I got heavy handed. The result is clumsy.

It seems I will also be aiming to regain some deftness. I very much admire deftness in art. Wherever a work falls on the realistic-to-abstract spectrum, deftness is a virtue. Deftness, for me, lends a transparency (not necessarily literal), a clarity, and speaks loudly of care and skill. I seem to have lost it, or at least found that deftness in large-scale, acrylic on canvas exploring bold colours using unusual tools is a very different beast.

I’m not sure I can save this little painting but it has become a good exercise and valuable reminder. The next one will be better.

Until then,

Kirsten