where it finds you

It’s usually in a quiet moment you notice them. During a figurative exhale. It’s when you’re left waiting alone at the dive bar table, whilst your mate gets another round in. Or, you’re at the bus stop, it’s wet and you’re sick of your phone, so you start reading the lamppost instead. Sometimes, it’s after you undo your flies and plonk yourself down to face the back of the toilet cubicle door. It’s within these static moments when a collective of artists start talking, demanding you as their audience. Overlapping voices leak; from stickers, posters, graffiti tags, QR codes, even old-school ‘tear-me-off’ ads. Surfaces wallpapered in wormholes, each leading to a different dimension - creations of individual and collective artists alike. It’s inspiring and it works. I take out my phone and snap up the lead to follow later. But boy, do they make me feel lonely.

To me, these stickers are like little tokens of success. From niche spoken word movements, stick-and-poke tattooists, oil portraitists to crafty crocheters and photographers. Even if all that’s left behind is a simple call-to-follow from a budding and proactive amateur, this act of ‘doing the thing’ indicates a soul already miles ahead of where a singular could-be-something may feel they’re at. From an outside stance, this collective stance, this collective seems to exist in a vacuum. It’s out there, public and known. Each fragment is its own piece — but together they compose a sprawling mural that illustrates a singular plane of existence. The place of Creative Community. There may be zero relation between Poppy’s Pottery and Archie’s indie street-style brand — but they’ve each done what so many of us still fear: exposed their crafts and sent out a call for connection.

I’m sure I’m not alone in this aloneness. I’d call myself a creative, but not an artist. I don’t have a sticker, an outcome to share or a particular skill to sell. I would say I’m personally quite happy in my current space of plesant purgatory — of in-between, of doing things for doings sake. I like to think I’m sort of nosing down the path, hands clasped behind my back, undetermined yet enjoying. But there have been many times in my past when I felt so sure I wanted something more — yet unsure what — that I groaned at how simple it seemed for others. I wished I could pinpoint a purpose, an end goal, a tangible result. Refine what my creativity could mean outwardly. So that I too could dive into this sea of makers. Yet, I was simultaneously frightened of being seen, of not being ready to swim and of drowning under the swellings of output overload. Despite now choosing to stay firmly on dry land, I still often meditate on how art, solitude, and community converge. I’ve been wondering if artistic exposure is an inevitability in this modern age. Is this itself off-putting or energising to newbies? Navigating the creative world with no sense of community can be hard — so what’s making so many of us hold back still?

art's many faces

‘What’s your art for?’ A loaded question to some, a simple return for others. Emotional release, working through trauma, communicating ideas, pushing for change, making a mess, pissing off the parents — endless answers! Art is mostly just our take on the world around us, chewed up and spat out in slightly different shapes. It’s the uniqueness in it we admire — if we wanted facts, we’d look elsewhere. If art’s purpose is inherently subjective, then ideas of community surely follow suit. It could be a book club you picture, where you feel safe sharing your pages with new fiction-loving friends. It might be a collective — an agency — where your aesthetic and skill flawlessly align. Your hope may just be to infiltrate your local scene, mixing with the crowds of diverse designers — becoming a face yourself. Whatever it looks like, the feelings drawn from it remain similar. A sense of belonging, of support and arrival. Acceptance becomes validation — and validation fuels ambition.

community unleashed

Clearly, as a creative, it’s hard to ignore this emphasis on community — on finding yours, making an entrance and putting down roots. But where does this urge stem from in the first place? The desire for visibility, validation, a helping hand — or access to your audience, perhaps? This can be more complex than it first seems, especially to those who have yet to fully experience it themselves. Whether it’s fear, inaccessibility or something else keeping you and your work on the sidelines, when you do find yourself on the cusp of joining this family, you might start to question whether you’re ready to let go of your solitude at all. You may consider this familial progression to be an unnatural, backward step for your independent ‘growing-teen’ artist within to take.

Despite this pullback, I believe we’re conscious of doing exactly that — resisting our natural direction. Maybe this chapter is where your art becomes less about personal expression and more about reaching outwards and exchanging voices. Maybe this is what your art was always meant for (sound familiar?). If you’ve ever experienced sharing excitement with a friend or trusted figure over your work, you know how addictive this can be. Perhaps this is what community could feel like on a bigger scale. What a gorgeous, terrifying idea.

Some cases make clear the argument that art and community are most powerful in harmony. Take Keith Harring’s vibrant street art of the 80s, for one. Harring made the conscious decision to expand his canvas; moving to work directly over everyday surfaces — painting over empty subway posters, downtown streets and transformative club scenes. These public spaces weren’t for just showcasing his now-iconic style — they pushed forward his openly controversial activism surrounding AIDS, apartheid and LGBTQ+ issues. (I highly recommend Ben Antony’s documentary ‘Street Art Boy‘ to gain a sense of how Harring’s brush strokes were guided by the revolution of his time). His work was and remains a bold political statement and cultural reflection — whose effect was catalysed by community.

the attic of authenticity

Then, how does the role of solitude fit with this undeniable impact attention brings? It seems obvious that most end-creations can be traced back to some form of singularity; a lonely idea sparked, a blueprint sketched, a skill honed — all in relative secrecy. But should solitude be seen only as this starting point, as a foundation for what needs to come? Navigating the landscape of creation, from seed to forest, is ultimately at your design. With all that potential, no wonder so many freeze up or abandon their talent altogether. Learning your craft is one thing but earning — demanding — space alongside others is another.

Maybe you’re also like me — staying curiously creative in your own company. We can fancy this as dwelling in our Attic of Authenticity. Each of us, regular Jo Marshes, laying out the pages of our magnum opus by frantic candlelight. This room is where creative energies can exist and dance like nobody is watching. But how long until they outgrow the attic — until the comfortable warmth of our den has our alter-egos scratching at the door to be unleashed? When will you be forced to admit you’re suffocating yourself? Teetering on this line is dangerous. It can uproot a lot of other evasive tactics.

Paralysis from perfectionism is as common as the cold to creatives. When left alone to predict how our work will be received by others, we spiral. Start to obsess over the plans, reasonings, and bloody USP’s! It’s all too easy here to lose sight of the dignity of art for art’s sake. Confronted with the idea of judgement and framework, we panic over the point of it all (regardless of whether we even really care!). As Julia Cameron puts it: ‘We correct our originality into a uniformity that lacks passion and spontaneity.’

Faced with these symptoms, we must remember just why solitude is indeed a vital part of artistry. Julia Cameron’s book ‘The Artist’s Way’ intends creativity to be understood as a spiritual path. Whether you aspire to be a famous director, or simply doodle more often, much of the page count is dedicated to healing your inner child artist. Alone. The Morning Pages and Artists Dates are to be done alone and never shared, not even with loved ones. Cameron invites us to experience how turning your attention back to the Self provides space for reflection, reconnection with new or original inspirations and a rediscovery of authenticity. Without distractions, outside pressure or judgement, you slowly regain familiarity with your flair. It preaches patience. Something so many of us learn to lack in this hyper-everything world. (Something we may also forget when distracted with thoughts of community). In this sense, an artist’s journey is never complete — so no matter your stage, solitude should always remain a part of your process.

the child that clings

If perfectionism is one thing — protection is another. Opening your work — and ergo much of your inner self — up for inspection is a hair-raising act. If we think of what else equally inspires and instils fear in our hearts; children. Art has a way of feeding life back into itself, out and in, like breath. From our work is born a body of art. Birthed from you, forever detached — yet eternally family. Like populating the human world, this comes with parental responsibility. Like a child, art can morph and change and take on a life of its own. It could turn into something ugly. If no one loves a child like its mother does — perhaps there’s also the threat of us becoming blind to the faults of our frames. In avoiding any chance of public failure, however, we risk becoming the overbearing restrictor of our conception’s possible potential. Herein lies the maker’s greatest plight. As Kahlil Gibran’s words remind us: ‘Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of life’s longing for itself. They come through you but not from you'. And so, who are we really, to keep our little ones out of the light?

art finds a way

This now all must be reflected in the digital age of online spaces. Here, the idea of community is echoed — yet not felt fully. It’s a different landscape almost entirely. Across social media, a simple post may act as your sticker; a call to submission for your new zine or a reel sharing your editing process. A screen that fits in your hand is you first gallery opening — except this one never closes and anyone can show up. Sharing work online paves the way for instant feedback and the chance to be seen. This cyber community is no doubt easier to access for a wider variety of deserving people, which is, of course, a good thing.

But still, it’s not without its downfalls. Whilst increased visibility may be the boost your project needs, with this comes complexities of artistic ownership and how you merge your product with your online presence (we’re all a brand now, apparently). Not to mention the dreaded digital footprint. Once shared, a piece we come to hate may well haunt us for eternity. For me, sharing work online has always been a source of anxiety. Although displaying and connecting is made more accessible via technology, this does not, in fact, make the resolve behind it any easier. Anonymity is scarce nowadays — and despite the success stories of creators rising through the ranks on the backs of algorithms, the flip side of negativity online, of lasting damage and lack of structured, filtered criticism can easily overshadow it all. The instant gratification of a virtual celebration seems also to dwindle shortly after it’s alight. (Something to do with the chemicals in our brains frying, right?). There’s a wider scope for us to explore today than yesterday — we just have the added job of treading extra carefully.

where you find it

It’s easy to get lost, discouraged, and downright confused about what we should or could be doing with our time as creative people. Something simple and innate spirals out into a maze of decision-making, influence, and fear. The walls and screens in our lives are constant reminders that there’s always somewhere you need to end up, someone you need to make see you. Poor us! Out of everything though, one action presides: doing. Whether you ever decide on your arts destination or not — don’t forget to be a creator. The process of doing freely is the closest you’ll ever get to that liberated artist within — and trust me, you’ll feel them thank you for it. Whatever you make and wherever it travels, it’s all enough. Brick by brick a craft is learned — and through it, a home is built.