Showing Up

Self-Portrait. Mixed media on paper. An exploration of the clarity and fog in creative work.

Each weekday morning, I pass my home studio. I’m already dressed for the office. I try not to notice the half-finished collages, the torn magazines, or the pile of books. The art supplies have that disorder of things arranged and rearranged but rarely used. What I feel, walking by, is the disappointment of being my own obstacle.

In my office job I’m efficient, decisive, and reliable. I meet deadlines. In the studio, I’ve been hesitant, almost apologetic, treating creative work as expendable and the first thing to be shelved when life demands it. This year, I missed multiple submission deadlines. Not always because of pressing obligations, but because I didn’t finish. I waited for motivation, and confidence to arrive, as though they were external forces that might validate the project. Meanwhile, at work, I never wait to feel inspired before drafting a report or preparing a presentation. There, expectations create a scaffold that makes success achievable. In the studio, there is no scaffold, only infinite possibilities and my own doubt.

So, I wrote myself a job description. Not a corporate one, but a personal contract. It felt slightly absurd, this formalisation of something meant to be about freedom and expression. But my creative work wasn’t failing for lack of passion, it was failing for lack of structure. I’m experimenting with the job description, testing it, and watching for what changes.

Psychiatrist Dr Tracey Marks writes that vague intentions produce vague results. The brain follows what it understands. For years I told myself, I’ll make art when I have time. My brain understood that art was to happen in leftover moments, if at all. Now I’m trying new language I’m an artist who makes art Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Naming it as present fact rather than an uncertain aspiration feels strange but quietly revolutionary. Each time I sit down to make art, the statement becomes more believable.

The shift isn’t smooth. Some mornings the voice in my head gets in the way. But repetition creates pattern and, slowly, routine.

Author James Clear describes “habit stacking” where a new behaviour is linked to an existing one so that the first becomes a trigger for the second. I’ve chosen my morning cup of tea as the trigger. While the water boils, I walk to the studio, open my notebook, and shift a few things about. By the time the tea is ready, I’m working.

Some mornings, this feels effortless. I glue magazine scraps and find unexpected compositions. Other mornings I only manage the ritual of making tea and sitting in the space. Dr Marks emphasises the importance of maintaining the ritual even when the plan falters. So, I do. Even when nothing is produced, I turn up.

Choreographer Twyla Tharp writes that her routine eliminates debate. She doesn’t decide whether to create. She wakes at 5:30 a.m., puts on her workout clothes, and takes a taxi to the studio. I think about that when I miss a session, as I often do. In my office job I’m not fired for a lapse in focus. I adjust and continue. Why hold my creative work to a harsher standard? The framework continues to exist even when I stumble.

I haven’t quit my day job to make art or write full-time. I don’t have an exhibition lined up or essays waiting to be published. What I have is a routine that fills notebooks, completes collages and mostly keeps me returning. Some mornings, I work for an hour. Other days, I stall, then begin again the next.

The studio feels different now. The materials aren’t waiting to be used because they’re part of an ongoing conversation. By treating creative practice with the consistency of a job, without the corporate pressure, but with the structure, I’m teaching myself that the work matters. Not because it will lead somewhere, but because it deserves my attention.

Over time, these mornings, these cups of tea with the notebook, accumulate. Each one adds to the next. For now, that’s enough.