I am the type of person that gets queasy when asked what I do for a living. I paint, create things, will things into existence from a few pigments and a paintbrush. Some weeks are more making a mess, than making a living and I worry that the people I love think I need to get a ‘real job.’
The world feels like it is on a knife edge. Society leaves us burnt out before we can burn brightly. I guess that’s where I am at. A little frayed and singed around the edges. I want to write about art, connect with people, share my work, and my belief that the arts and creativity in all its forms, enrich our lives, and enhance society for everyone.
My current covenstead is the box room of the home I share with my husband. A 2 x 3m space containing a wooden table from the local YMCA, and an easel I found at a flea market. Squeezed onto the side wall are four various sized shelving units bolted together to make one giant bookcase. They hold materials and hundreds of art publications, pamphlets, and postcards I collect from car boot sales and charity shops. I have dreams of a library. The space is compact. I can reach almost anything I need from my single kneeling chair. Convenient and bijou sounds better than cramped and constrained. Everything on a budget. No frills, no fuss. But this is a sacred space. Magic is made here. I am a coven of one.
I toil over this craft. No fancy studio, or agent. No gallery representation. I feel on the fringes of community, an outsider. A lone wolf, separated from the pack by imposter syndrome. I continue to create, hoping that one day AI will find the ability to take care of the dishes and clean the toilet, to allow more room for our creative endeavours, which I believe makes us human. Art is a powerful tool. Art has the ability to teach, to connect and to save. Art is an incantation.
I don’t know if what I make will ever be accepted into the canon, the gatekeepers continue to keep the gates bolted shut and the glass ceiling feels too fucking high. I barely scrap a living. But I continue to spend my days alone in this small room lost in an enchantment, conjuring something into becoming. I am connected to this force, devoted, completely under its spell and there is no retirement from this witchcraft.