My Own Obstacle

From ongoing collage project. Self-Portrait. Collage on paper. 2025.

Each weekday morning I pass my home studio, already dressed for the office. I try not to notice the half-finished collages, the torn magazines, 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 am efficient, decisive, reliable. I meet deadlines. In the studio I have been hesitant, almost apologetic — treating creative work as expendable, the first thing to be shelved when life demands it. This year I missed several 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. There, expectations create a scaffold that makes success achievable. In the studio there is no scaffold, only infinite possibility and my own doubt.

So I wrote myself a job description. Not a corporate one — a personal contract. It felt slightly absurd, this formalising of something meant to be about freedom. But my creative work wasn't failing for lack of passion. It was failing for lack of structure.

For years I told myself, I'll make art when I have time, and my brain understood exactly what that meant: art was to happen in leftover moments, if at all. So I have changed the sentence. I am an artist who makes art on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Naming it as present fact rather than uncertain aspiration feels strange. Each time I sit down, it 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.

I have chosen my morning cup of tea. 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 am working.

Some mornings this is effortless. I glue magazine scraps and find unexpected compositions. Other mornings I manage only the ritual — the tea, the sitting. I do it anyway. Even when nothing is produced, I turn up.

Twyla Tharp writes that her routine eliminates debate. She does not decide whether to create. She wakes at 5.30, 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 am not sacked for a lapse in focus. I adjust and continue. Why hold the studio to a harsher standard? The framework exists even when I stumble.

I haven't quit the day job. 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, and begin again the next.

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

These mornings, these cups of tea with the notebook, accumulate. Each one adds to the next. For now, that is enough.