Just the other week I had the pleasure of sharing my experience of the past year, both as the recent Artist in Residence at the Drake University Alumni Studio at Mainframe Studios as well as an illustrator navigating 2020. Read the full transcript below, or better yet, check out the video recording from my artist talk from the Drake Art + Design Alumni Impact Showcase.
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When I first thought about giving this lecture, I imagined myself standing before a live audience. Social distancing was not yet part of our shared lexicon, and no one donned a mask as habitually as slipping on a pair of socks before leaving home.
That was nearly ten months ago. Between then and now, I lost, then regained two jobs. Wrote and illustrated a picture book from beginning to end. Moved out of the Drake University Alumni studio at Mainframe Studios and into another. And most recently, became a college art and design instructor at Grand View University. It’s been a tumultuous year to say nothing of the events outside my four studio walls. The one constant however, has been art.
For more than a month after the pandemic became our collective reality, I sought refuge in my studio and the blank piece of paper I set before myself, day after day. It was what I fell asleep thinking about at night and woke up thinking about in the morning. When my mind started to swirl with anxiety, when my fingers itched to hit ‘read’ on just one more COVID19 news flash, I thought of Theodore, the stuffed rabbit and eponymous character of my latest children’s book.
But it was not Theodore’s plush belly and floppy ears that lent me comfort as life as we knew it turned on its head. For me, Theodore was one thing that I controlled. From quick, gestural character sketches to fully rendered spreads, Theodore remained my constant, a wellspring of creativity to stave off both the darkness of a global pandemic and the brightness of the blank page before me.
Therefore, in deciding what I wanted to speak about tonight, the obvious choice was to share with you the lessons I have learned as a picture book artist navigating 2020. Consider this The Artist’s Survival Guide to Creating During a Global Pandemic.
Tap Into Your Inner Child
In the spring of 2019, I realized the life-long goal of becoming a published children’s book illustrator. After quitting a lucrative, yet unfulfilling full-time job as a graphic designer at Meredith Corp. in April of 2018, I was hired by Blue Manatee Press, a small, independent publisher in Cincinnati, OH to illustrate Odd Animal ABC’s, by author June Smalls. It was a role I had rehearsed many times before. Animals were frequent features of my childhood oeuvre.
Certainly, I was proud of the work I did for Odd Animals. I can now draw tigers, as well as every other animal from A to Z, much better than my 6-year-old self could. And yet, something is inevitably lost in the years between childhood and adulthood, and not only a preference for drawing with crayons!
In order to illustrate (and write) for children, you must think like a child. And the practice of tapping into your own inner-child is one that must be continually honed. For me, it often starts with a memory - a trip to the zoo, carving jack-o-lanterns for Halloween, cozying up with a big stack of library books. These are just a few memories that have fuelled my creative process this year.
Communing with your inner child requires that you temporarily set aside your very real adult worries, (a tall order in 2020, I know) and adopt a fresh mindset. It’s where my best ideas for writing and illustrating spring from, not to mention a welcome respite from crunching numbers to cover next month’s rent or planning my next masked grocery excursion.
Consider your inner child a muscle, one that must be flexed and contracted continually to avoid atrophy. Eventually, it takes less effort. So nearly a year after I published my first book, amid a growing global pandemic when I found myself without a job, yet with plenty of time on my hands, I knew just what to do: make art!
Which leads me to my next point.
Make Art (LOTS of It!)
A typical picture book has 32 pages, including title page, dedication, and copyright, each of which provide a blank canvas for illustration.
And while I now write as well as illustrate my own stories, for me, the beginning of a new story starts with pictures, not words. I’ll doodle character sketches for weeks before my story has a fully fleshed-out plot. I’ll dream in watercolor shades of pink and purple and everything in between before I’ve got the cadence of the first sentence right.
When a rough draft is finally written, I gravitate towards those illustrations that are already living inside my head, that only wait for me to pick up my pencil to come alive on paper. And sometimes, as is the case with A Hug for Theodore, it’s the very last page of the book.
These days, when so much is uncertain, I find comfort in knowing how my story is going to end. That’s the beauty of narrative art. It’s has beginning, a middle, and an end. It’s ‘once upon a time’ and ‘happily ever after.’
When artist’s block strikes as it inevitably does, I need only tell myself to turn to the next page, because there is always something more to illustrate.
So make good art, and lousy art. Make art for a purpose, and make art for no reason at all. Just make art!
Take Risks
And when you make art, take risks. Risk in art can be as simple as trying a new medium or looking for a new perspective. I still remember my second grade art teacher commenting to my parents that I liked to draw very small. If only he could see what I draw now!
For me, working in isolation pushed my artistic style in a direction I would have been loathe to try in front of my peers. Certainly, as artists, we need feedback, both the criticism and the accolades. But there is also a benefit to a no-consequence approach to creating. If there was ever a time to make art that fulfills you and not an audience’s expectations, that time is now.
Only Theodore has far to fall if something doesn’t succeed. And surely, one of these elephants will catch him!
Surround Yourself with Support
I too have someone to break my fall. I would not be sitting here tonight, speaking to you, without the unfailing support of my family, friends, and community.
My family has long been both my first bastion of support and well-informed critique. Certainly, it helps to have an artistically-inclined mother, father, and sister.
When I first broke into the world of children’s literature, it was to find (much to my surprise!) a burgeoning community of increasingly diverse, and yet like-minded creatives, determined to write, illustrate and publish for, arguably, the most important readership: kids. The Iowa chapter of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (or SCBWI as it is known) welcomed me with open arms. I was soon part of a writer/illustrator critique group with whom, two years later, I still meet monthly (albeit now virtually). It’s as much a social gathering or group therapy session as it is a critique of our craft.
Finally, since August of 2019 I’ve felt at home in yet another community: Mainframe Studios. It is my honor not only to present my story tonight as part of the Anderson Gallery Winter Showcase, but also as a recent Artist-in-Residence for the Drake University Alumni Studio at Mainframe Studios. Since becoming a tenant at Mainframe Studios, I have felt a sense of belonging to something bigger, something far more impactful than my own illustration practice and new third floor studio. Indeed, Mainframe Studios is making a big impact. It’s one of the largest affordable workspaces for artists in the country, and I’m honored to count myself among those who call it a second home.
This year, when we are physically, if not mentally and emotionally, more isolated than ever before, I am so grateful to the people and communities in my life that have helped me feel less alone. I don’t for a moment flatter myself to think my situation is unique. But the people who have showed up for me in the spring to fill the blank spaces on my calendar with virtual yoga classes, my mailbox with hand-written notes, and my bank account with money to buy myself a bottle of wine and a bouquet, they are special. And as someone whose 3-year-old catchphrase of ‘I do it my ownself,’ still holds true at 28, this year has been a lesson in humility. I would be nothing without the support of my friends and family.
And without family, I doubt I would be sharing with you this last point of my presentation.
Share It
I come from a long maternal line of teachers and as I continue to grow as an artist, I understand even better how my words, pictures, and actions can help shape younger generations. These days, we can share our work through various social media platforms with the tap of finger. The real challenge I have come to learn however, is not sharing the work itself, but sharing the knowledge of how that work is made.
If sharing your art feels like bearing a bit of your soul, then teaching how to make art is like dissecting yourself to peel back the layers of your own artistic method. It is at times both an excruciating and exhilarating process to see what lies underneath.
Despite the fact that my mother, grandmother, great grandmother, and sister have pursued teaching careers, until this fall, I never envisioned myself standing in front of a class of college art students as I have day after day and week after week at Grand View University.
We are now a mere three weeks away from finishing the semester. This fall, my Drawing students have learned everything from gesture to one-point perspective, developed a comfort level with critiquing their peer’s work and examined their own doubts and inhibitions when they stare at the blank page. They have learned a lot. But so have I.
I’ve realized that I am no longer content to just make art. Teaching art scratches an itch I didn’t even know I had: to share with others the lessons I have had to learn to reach where I am now, just as I am sharing them with you all tonight.
In a way it has come full circle. Every time a student has that ‘aha!’ moment is like reliving the experience myself. I am once again tapping into if not my childhood, then my younger artist self: the one with less answers, but no less of a passion to create.
And in a year when we cannot always have our friends and our family physically near us, when toilet paper is scarce, and the walls of our homes all too familiar, it is so satisfying to create something from a blank page. So whether or not you consider yourself an artist, whether you are well acquainted with your inner-child or have yet to meet, I hope you pick up a pencil, a paintbrush, a pen and make art! We need it now more than ever.