A Beautiful Compulsion

To be an artist, I think you have to be a little selfish. Not in the cutthroat ‘suffer for your genius’ kind of way, but in the quieter, persistent pull that keeps your focus orbiting the work. Art becomes the undercurrent humming constantly beneath everything else. 

I do enjoy being sociable and I value connection. But the creative process is greedy. It wants space, time and attention.

My partner has come to understand this, so on weekends, I usually don’t want to go out for lunch. Not because I’m antisocial, but because it breaks the day right down the middle. That uninterrupted middle stretch could be prime studio time! 

I’ve been thinking lately about the history of artists and how many of the so-called ‘greats’ were terrible people. Selfish, narcissistic, emotionally unavailable. I don’t romanticise that behaviour, but I understand where the tunnel vision comes from.

I think it is possible to commit deeply to your practice without being an asshole. But it takes conscious effort. The creative drive doesn’t always respect boundaries, so I have to set them myself otherwise the work can consume everything. Family and friendships will always come first. But art isn’t far behind. It’s not just a job, more a way of thinking. A way of being.

I’m definitely not the stereotypical tortured artist – just obsessed. Every day feels like an opportunity to make something new, and I feel the weight of that in a motivating way. The days are finite with a multitude of ideas awaiting to come to life… so I try to make hay while the sun shines!

It’s a constant shifting rhythm with ebbs and surges. Full immersion followed by recovery, with the current of making a constant. That quiet pull to return to the work, again and again.

It’s a beautiful compulsion.