My private mantra

Make art. Make art. Make art.

It’s Friday morning, and I’m back on the Metro. The boys have been back at school for a week, and I’ve arranged a ten o’clock meeting to check out a studio in Surry Hills. Campbell, the studio owner, has kindly offered to show me the space. There is a desk available for rent, for only $250 a month. I’m equal parts nervous and excited.

I arrive at the designated address right on ten. ‘I’m downstairs,’ I message Campbell. ‘One moment,’ he replies. Minutes later, the front door opens, and Campbell (supposedly) emerges. Sporting glasses, board shorts, and a t-shirt, he exudes a friendly, laid-back vibe that I’m immediately drawn to. As we ride the elevator up to the third floor, he tells me that this is the last original warehouse still standing in Surry Hills. He leads me through a maze of corridors, and I am awestruck. Every single wall and surface is a work of art. Yes, it is graffiti. But it is graffiti art, to be sure.

We arrive at the studio space. It is a large room, quiet and well-lit with natural light. Campbell shows me around, pointing out the kitchen to the right of the entrance and the lockers that line the back wall. He also introduces me to Lily, one of the long-term residents of the space. She is working away at her computer—we smile briefly, and I say hello. I walk up to the windows and peer out. There is a beautiful maple tree right outside the building, and the light coming through the leaves is dappled and almost ethereal.

I ask whether it would be possible to have a desk by the window. Possibly, says Campbell. He would have to chat with his studio manager, but he doesn’t see any reason why not. I walk around the space and take photos to show Rick later. I feel torn; the light is beautiful and the rent is very reasonable, but the space almost feels too quiet. Campbell and I chat some more, then I thank him and tell him I’ll have to discuss with my husband. We shake hands, and I promise to be in touch.

____

Outside, it begins to drizzle and I am without my umbrella. I set my Apple Maps to Paramount Coffee Project and begin the trek in the rain. After seven minutes, I check my phone, only to discover that I am now further away from my destination than when I began.

‘I’m such a doofus,’ I text my husband. ‘I’ve been walking in the wrong direction for seven minutes—in the rain!!!’ He offers his sympathies. But also: ‘That’s hilarious!’

The drizzle morphs into a downpour.

Slowly and arduously, I struggle towards Paramount Coffee Project, cursing the fact that I told myself I wouldn’t need an umbrella because the weather app said it wouldn’t rain till five in the afternoon. I take refuge under the occasional cover to avoid getting completely drenched. I even duck into the Salvos on Albion Street and wonder briefly if they might allow me to loiter and work in the foyer while I wait for the rain to cease. But after ten minutes of pacing back and forth, it’s clear the rain is not going to let up. I know what I need to do.

‘I’m going to make a run for it,’ I tell Rick.

____

I arrive at Coffee Paramount Project, sopping wet. Rick insists on a photo.

‘No way,’ I reply. ‘I look terrible.’

A friendly waiter directs me to the large wooden table in the middle of the cafe and points out the one free seat still remaining. It’s the same spot I sat more than a year ago when I spent the day writing up a long-overdue Substack post.

I plop down, my hair dripping wet.

‘Can I get you anything?’ the waiter asks.

‘A large soy latte please,’ I say. Don’t ask for one and a half shots, I think to myself. Don’t make it complicated. Just don’t.

‘That’s all?’

‘Yes, that’s all for now, thanks.’

I smile up at him, and he leaves.

Still cold and damp, I glance around the table. There’s a guy on my right, eating his eggs on toast and scrolling on his phone. He has on a black t-shirt and black shorts, and he’s deeply engrossed in the video content on his device.

The group to my left is much more animated. They chat non-stop as they each take occasional sips from their various coffees. I catch tiny snippets of their conversation, and it becomes clear that the two on my left are a couple who have a flight out of Sydney that afternoon. Their friend, a local, asks many questions about their trip and, in turn, regales them with tales of his daily adventures. I can’t help but notice that he, too, is dressed in monochrome, much like my other neighbour, who has finished his toast and is now getting up to pay.

My coffee arrives, and I take my first sip of caffeine for the day.

So, so good.

The last time I was here, I wrote profusely. Today, however, I am too cold, too restless, and too distracted to write. So instead of my laptop, I pull out my sketchbook and flip it open. With relief, I see that my Staedtler pencil is still tucked away inside. I turn over the page, hoping to find some blank space, only to come face to face with the words I scribbled down two days ago in my clumsy handwriting:

MAKE ART
MAKE ART
MAKE ART

As if on reflex, I quickly fold the page in half so no one can see my somewhat childish mantra. My deft response surprises even myself.

Why the embarrassment, I wonder.

When I wrote the words, it certainly didn’t feel like a silly thing to do. If anything, it felt vital at the time. Like I needed to write out the words in order to make it a reality.

Last year, I barely spent any time making art. I didn’t write, I didn’t take photographs creatively, and I only managed to spend eight whole days in my studio producing artworks. Eight days. Eight days out of 365. I’m no KPI expert, but that number sounds underwhelming at best. And completely pathetic, if we’re being brutally honest.

Instead of art, most of my time got taken up with design work for clients. Whilst my initial plan was to only work two to three days a week, in the end, I clocked up four to five days, almost every week, for most of the year. I know, because I logged all my hours, and my calendar app never lies.

As a freelancer, I’m always grateful when decent work comes my way. Especially when my clients get design and (for the most part) are happy to trust my creative direction. As my fellow freelancing colleagues would know, the very nature of freelance work is that it ebbs and flows, so when there’s work, you hustle. Thankfully, I happen to enjoy design, so sometimes the work doesn’t even feel like work. It’s like getting paid to do the thing you love. Win-win, right?

The tricky thing is when you also love something else, and that something else requires both time and practice.

Thankfully, over the summer, it dawned on me that I actually have the power and the freedom to set my own boundaries. After all, this is literally the whole point of being a freelancer: in exchange for the instability of income, we get to determine our own working hours. How did I lose sight of this? I honestly don’t know.

But yes, I can set my own boundaries. I can choose to set my work days and stick to them. I can choose to tell my clients to expect a longer lead time, because I am only working for a certain number of days at week. (How many days is that? Whatever I want! Whatever I decide! I get to choose! Amazing, right?)

‘Did you want to order some food?’

I look up to see the same young waiter by my side, poised for action. He’s noticed my empty latte cup and is about to clear it away.

‘Actually, yes. Can I order a B.K.E. roll¹? And would it be okay if I moved to that spot over there near the kitchen?’

‘Sure, let me help you with your water bottle and glass.’

I shut my sketchbook, grab my stuff, and follow the young man to the counter by the kitchen. There’s less people here, and I can have my laptop and my sketchbook out at the same time. Even when the B.K.E. roll arrives, there is still plenty of room.

Over the next couple of hours, I devour the B.K.E. roll, revise the strategy for my design business, and rather painstakingly rework my weekly schedule so that I have multiple set days in the studio for making art. It’s like doing one of those IQ jigsaw puzzle games, where you have to fit in an entire new puzzle piece into the same space as before, whilst still having to keep all the other pieces in play. It looks impossible at first, but with a bit of lateral thinking, the solution slowly materialises and presents itself to the light. (Incidentally, my second youngest son loves those IQ puzzles, and I find one for him every Christmas. Maybe, this year, I should just send him a link to my calendar app and tell him to find six extra hours in mum’s week?)

Around two o’clock, I sit back and take in my chaotic page of notes and the messy timetable scrawled out at the very bottom. I then slowly unfold the previous page with my private mantra and smile.

MAKE ART
MAKE ART
MAKE ART

On one hand, one could argue that I have achieved nothing tangible today.

But on the other hand, I can finally see the path forward. My very own yellow brick road. The destination? Making art on repeat.

The waiter reappears at my side, ready to clear my plate away.

‘Can I get you anything else?’

I beam at him. My hair and clothes are finally dry, and I’m feeling all warm and fuzzy inside.

‘No, thank you. I think I’m done.’

p.s. Gosh it’s good to write again. Also, if you’re here and reading, I feel like it’s time we got to know each other. So, let’s kick off with a simple multiple choice: how do you like your coffee?

a) Black, of course.
b) Cappuccino, baby!
c) Latte, always.
d) Flat white, that’s right.
e) Tea, not coffee.
f) Who needs caffeine?

1. B.K.E. roll = bacon, kale, and egg roll = the perfect writer’s lunch