There's this idea out there that if you're an artist, you should always be making art. And if you're not making art, you should at least be doing something that moves your work forward. Somehow, I've absorbed some of that thinking, even though I don't entirely agree with it.
Every summer, my work slows down a little. Actually, a lot. My boys are home from school, we travel some and our days look very different. In many ways life gets busier, and in other ways, it slows down. There are more people in the house, more interruptions and less time to disappear into my studio or sit down and write. I've come to anticipate this, and even appreciate it because it means more time with my family. These years with my kids aren't going to last forever. I'm too often reminded of that.
This summer was no different, although I did think about how little I was sharing. I was still taking photographs, collecting things, reading, traveling and spending time with my family, but very little of it was making its way onto my website or my social media accounts. I realized recently that I hadn't written in Field Notes or sent out an email since July 8. Yikes! I knew it had been a while, but I hadn't realized how long.
A part of me felt like I should be doing more. I have a creative business, after all, and sharing my work is part of how people discover what I do. Disappearing for months at a time probably isn't the best business strategy. But I also had this strong desire to just be in my life, enjoying the time with my family without thinking about what I might eventually do with any of it. And honestly, sometimes I simply didn't have the energy to do much more than what was already in front of me. And then fall arrives, bringing with it a little more structure and some sense of finding my footing again.
I believe having a creative practice matters. Making art regularly allows us to develop our skills, experiment, discover things and deepen our relationship with our craft. But I also think a creative practice can look very different from one artist to another and even for the same artist at different points in life. I'm not in my studio every day, and to be honest, there are stretches when I'm not making much art at all. Sometimes life is full, and by the time I've attended to everything that needs me, I don't have much left to give. I can understand that and still feel frustrated that I'm not spending more time making art. Believe me, that feeling is real.
I'm not sure I've ever really experienced creativity as something linear or confined to my studio. Things catch my eye, I photograph them, collect bits and pieces of places I've been and write down thoughts I might want to remember or revisit later. A photograph might eventually lead to a painting, a scrap of paper from a trip might find its way into a collage or an experience might end up in words written on a page. Much of what I collect never becomes anything at all. I've been doing this for as long as I can remember. It's how I process the world around me and pay attention to the life I'm living.
I can recognize all of that as part of my creative life and still wish I had something more tangible to show for my time, a finished painting, a new essay or a project I've been working on. I miss the actual act of making when I've been away from my studio for too long. And because I have a business of sorts, I'm also aware that I haven't been putting much out into the world for other people to see. Staying visible matters, although I can't say I always love that part of having a creative business. Sometimes I resent how much of my attention it requires, particularly when I'd rather be using that time and energy to make something else.
Creating content is creative work in itself. Selecting photographs, putting together a carousel, making a video or writing a caption to accompany an image all involve creative thought and decisions. And I genuinely enjoy sharing much of what I do. But I don't have an endless well of creative energy (unfortunately), and given the choice, I'd usually rather spend it making art or writing than making content about making art or writing.
I notice this most when I'm actually in my studio. I'll be working on a painting or collage, completely absorbed in what I'm doing, and suddenly I'll think that I "should" probably be documenting the process. Maybe I should take a few photographs or record a video. I enjoy seeing other artists at work, and I understand why people like seeing how things come together. Yet suddenly I'm thinking about how I might share what I'm doing, considering what someone else might want to see of me making it. Most of the time I don't stop to document anything, but for a moment, my attention has shifted away from what I'm making. Nothing about the painting has changed and nobody has asked me to do anything differently. And the funny thing is, I don't particularly want to document the process while I'm working. I've just come to think that I probably should.
Toward the end of our trip to France this summer, I realized I'd taken hundreds of photographs but hardly any video. I'd shared a couple of carousels on Instagram during the trip, putting together some of my favorite photographs, but then I started thinking about how I didn't have much material for Reels. Because apparently video is king these days, or so I keep hearing. I had to laugh at myself a little. I'd spent the trip photographing the things that interested me, exactly as I wanted to, and somehow I was thinking about what I hadn't captured for Instagram. The thought hadn't occurred to me while I was taking the photographs. It came afterward, when I started considering what I might share.
Somewhere along the way, I've absorbed more of these expectations than I probably realized. Nobody has to tell me to document what I'm doing in the studio or remind me that I haven't published anything in months. I'm perfectly capable of doing that myself. And even when I don't have the time or energy to do everything I'd like, there's still a part of me keeping track of what I haven't done. I know there's a difference between wanting to make art and feeling that I need to have something to show for my time, although I don't always find it easy to separate the two.
I also have some responsibility for how I navigate this. I can decide what I share, how often I share it and how much attention I want to give the business side of my creative life. Those decisions have consequences, of course, and I can't pretend otherwise. But I'd like to give a little more thought to the choices I'm making, including questioning where some of these expectations are coming from in the first place.
There's some irony in writing about all of this, knowing I'll send it out in an email and probably share it on social media. I want people to read it. I hope something in it resonates. I'm taking an experience from my life and turning it into something to share, which is something I genuinely enjoy doing. Go figure.
What I've been questioning for a while though is how much of my limited creative energy I want to spend making my work visible, and how much I want to reserve for the work itself. And I don't think it's necessarily a this or that proposition, although I often wish it were that cut and dry. Creating and sharing can complement one another, and in an ideal world there would be adequate time and energy for both. And I do want to be making more art and writing more often. I just don't want the effort of keeping up with everything surrounding that work to consume the energy I have for doing it. If that makes sense.
I don't know exactly what all of this looks like, and I'm sure it will continue to wax and wane, as much of life does. I suppose part of writing about it is trying to make sense of it. Apparently, that meaning making part of me is out in full force. I do still have a business to consider, but I'm also aware of how much else there is in my life that I want to give my attention to. And knowing myself, I suspect I'll keep wrestling with how to make room for everything I care about and everything I want to do. Such is life, right?
xx,
Michel