Writing can be an exasperating process; I’ve known this since I was very small. The earliest memory I have of it is laughably unpleasant. My six-year-old self, faced with copying row after row of ‘a’s and ‘o’s, decided that this would not do. There were tears in profusion. There was a ‘sad face’ in my exercise book, ominous in red biro.
Though I’m now well past the tantrums, the process of writing can still leave me tearing out hair in frustration. With an inner monologue whose chattering keeps me awake at night, why is it so bothersome to commit to paper? Maybe it’s commitment that’s the problem; I have authorial cold feet, daunted by the finality of a piece of writing.
You’d be right to wonder, then: why bother with it in the first place? I’m going to say that I do so for the joy of it. And it is joyful, in spite of the obstacles. Somehow, externalising these thoughts and ideas can create order in an overwhelmed mind. Managing to do so with any modicum of elegance or finesse, wrangling cohesion out of confusion - that’s where the satisfaction lies. It took a while for me to recognise that the process of writing could be a powerful tool, that I could be as proud of my prose as my pictures.
Funnily enough, that first harrowing foray into writing was quickly usurped by a more amiable memory. It was later the same year when, during a writing exercise, I boldly announced to my teacher that when I grew up, I wanted to be “an author and illustrator”. Sixteen years later, I‘m still pursuing that ambition, still solidly determined to achieve it.
Thursday, 5 November 2009
Wednesday, 9 September 2009
Indian summer and a sneak-peek
Sometimes England really surprises you. Take yesterday, for example: cloudless blue skies, balmy heat, and the sunshine streaming in through the kitchen window, conspiring to convince me that it was midsummer all over again. Bliss. Bored after lunch, I realised that I'd managed to spend yet another summer in London without visiting a lido! I have no excuse, really, especially since moving to Crouch End, with its own outdoor watering-hole mere minutes away. It was now or never.
One of the best things about this corner of north London is that it doesn't take much pretending to convince yourself you're not actually in the capital. There are trees everywhere, the houses are Victorian and dainty with well-manicured gardens. People have hanging baskets, for god's sake! The lido turned out to be equally lovely, surrounded by lawns and hedges, and I spent a blissful two hours pretending really hard that I was actually on holiday, somewhere dusty and mediterranean. Well, some of the time. The rest of the time I spent fretting about sunburn, and internally lamenting my conspicuous lack of tan. Turns out everyone else in Muswell Hill looks like they spent the last three months sunning it in St Barths. Bastards.
There is some artwork in this post, I promise. In between poolside lounging and an early-evening icecream, I managed to make a start on a piece I've had kicking around my head, and my sketchbook, for far too long. The drawing isn't quite finished yet, but I thought I'd post it here in-progress anyway, if only to convince certain doubters (David, I am pointing at you, and scowling) that I do occasionally still make illustrations.
I still love working with pointillism like this, even though it takes forever to do and seems unbelievably daunting when you start. This will probably have some kind of coloured ink background, and of course the void in her head will be filled with something, but I'm not going to tell you what just yet. I like to maintain an air of mystery...
One of the best things about this corner of north London is that it doesn't take much pretending to convince yourself you're not actually in the capital. There are trees everywhere, the houses are Victorian and dainty with well-manicured gardens. People have hanging baskets, for god's sake! The lido turned out to be equally lovely, surrounded by lawns and hedges, and I spent a blissful two hours pretending really hard that I was actually on holiday, somewhere dusty and mediterranean. Well, some of the time. The rest of the time I spent fretting about sunburn, and internally lamenting my conspicuous lack of tan. Turns out everyone else in Muswell Hill looks like they spent the last three months sunning it in St Barths. Bastards.
There is some artwork in this post, I promise. In between poolside lounging and an early-evening icecream, I managed to make a start on a piece I've had kicking around my head, and my sketchbook, for far too long. The drawing isn't quite finished yet, but I thought I'd post it here in-progress anyway, if only to convince certain doubters (David, I am pointing at you, and scowling) that I do occasionally still make illustrations.
I still love working with pointillism like this, even though it takes forever to do and seems unbelievably daunting when you start. This will probably have some kind of coloured ink background, and of course the void in her head will be filled with something, but I'm not going to tell you what just yet. I like to maintain an air of mystery...
Friday, 4 September 2009
Something old...
As with everything related to my degree, I managed to leave it pitifully late to collect my work from uni. This miscalculation resulted in a jaw-clenchingly tedious quest through Westminster's bureaucracy system, followed by a harrowing tube ride at rush hour, clutching my 'pride and joy' tightly and muttering foul language under my breath, until at last I got the bastard stuff home.
Knowing what to do with your old sketchbooks is always a bit of a conundrum. Like a lot of us artist types, I feel an almost unnatural broodiness towards my work. In fact, in an ideal world, it would all be stored neatly on shelves in its own dedicated room, ready to be stroked and gloated over at my leisure. The main problems with this plan are as follows:
1. Graduate unemployment + London renting costs = pitifully tiny living space.
2. They're mostly sketchbooks. So they're mostly, to put not too fine a point on it, crap.
As always, though, there are some hidden surprises; some things that almost make up for the ridiculous effort of dragging the lot home in the first place. These images are from my sketchbooks for the summer project last year, 'Power'. I really like them, perhaps because they're so different from the work I produced for the final project. The theme of female sexuality was, if I recall, not so well-recieved.
Sod it, I like them.
Knowing what to do with your old sketchbooks is always a bit of a conundrum. Like a lot of us artist types, I feel an almost unnatural broodiness towards my work. In fact, in an ideal world, it would all be stored neatly on shelves in its own dedicated room, ready to be stroked and gloated over at my leisure. The main problems with this plan are as follows:
1. Graduate unemployment + London renting costs = pitifully tiny living space.
2. They're mostly sketchbooks. So they're mostly, to put not too fine a point on it, crap.
As always, though, there are some hidden surprises; some things that almost make up for the ridiculous effort of dragging the lot home in the first place. These images are from my sketchbooks for the summer project last year, 'Power'. I really like them, perhaps because they're so different from the work I produced for the final project. The theme of female sexuality was, if I recall, not so well-recieved.
Sod it, I like them.
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