How important is it to stay loyal to your interest?

This is something I’ve been thinking about today.

My artistic interest is in objects. I’m fascinated with things and our relationship with things. I love stuff. It is the stuff of stuff that I love. Stuff rules our lives. We don’t like that, but it does. Stuff is everywhere. I wrote my dissertation about stuff and the art of stuff.

Ever since I started my late artistic education (in 2012) I’ve looked closely at things. Firstly, I considered transitional objects and fond objects. I discovered Daniel Miller and his studies. Next, I moved on to the trace objects leave when they leave us. Jacques Derrida helped me here. Then I looked at the valuable objects at Powis Catle and the relationship the staff at Powis had with those objects. I didn’t need a thinker; I just needed the people I interviewed. After that, I moved onto First World War objects and again, the trace of memory in them. I interviewed the staff at Shrewsbury Regimental Museum and people who lived in Pontesbury about their precious things. Again, no thinker was needed, just people and their love of objects. Last year, I considered balloons as objects and the effect they have on us and the beauty that can be found in them once lost and / or burst. This time help came from friends, family and strangers who collected balloons for me. I considered the notion of ennobling the discarded ethereal object by turning the balloon fragments into bronze.

This year, objects aren’t featuring at all in my research. Currently my interest is much more abstract and much less tangible than cats, toys, shoes, balloons or medals. I’m looking at repetition.

I hooked onto this subject a couple of months ago when the level 6 fine art students (me included) were asked to consider repetition over a two-day period at the beginning of term. I looked at the subject, I enjoyed it, and after two days I decided to keep running. I started the #FreeRepublicofRepetition and set up a website which muses on the topic from time to time.

There are two strands to my interest in repetition. Firstly, I’m fascinated with repetition in every day life in the form of homelife, work, routine, advertising, art, philosophy, politics, culture, social media and social life. To this end I’ve been producing a number of posters and post-it notes and doodles and leaving them around me, mostly around the art building in Wolverhampton. This has been the ‘fun’ side to the project. I’ve really enjoyed being a bit of a fake guerrilla artist. This is the post-modernist in me coming out. Nothing I have made is original, it is all borrowed and twisted for the sake of humour and perhaps political or social message.

One of my posters

One of my posters

The second strand is repetition in art. What does repetition produce? Does it produce a bland copy or does it, ironically, inspire original thought? We might imagine that repetition is a form of copying or faking, but is that always, or at all, true? My argument is, that it isn’t true (even, perhaps, when that is the intention but that is arguable). Repetition can be a process to follow to give a number of interesting results: freeing the mind from the pressure to come up with original thought, finding an idea out of not needing an idea and also seeking perfection. Repetition leads to infinity. Of course, that isn’t possible. So why not see how far you can get by simple repetition of a concept or an image? You won’t get to perfection but you might get quite close. There is no such thing as and ‘end’ of infinity or perfection anyway, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t worth trying. There are plenty of paradoxes in the world yet we pursue them anyway. Paradoxes are interesting. We shouldn’t ignore the things we don’t understand or can’t explain with logic just because we don’t understand them or can’t explain them.

Repeating and thinking

Repeating and thinking

So my question here is: should I worry that my interest has changed quite dramatically since the summer? Or maybe it hasn’t yet I can’t yet see the connection? Perhaps there is a connection and it is just hiding from me. Objects and Repetition. Objects and Repetition. Objects and Repetition. If I repeat it enough, I will see the connection. Repetition leads to clarity. I hope it leads to clarity.

As for my art practice, that has remained the same. I love to draw. I have been drawing a lot while thinking about repetition. I’ve been drawing repetitiously and also doodling and drawing and sketching about the topic: anything and everything that comes to mind.

My doodles

My doodles

I feel uneasy, though, that I haven’t done enough. I feel uneasy that I have no idea where this is going. Is it going anywhere at all? I don’t know. I will just keep repeating and repeating until I get there, wherever there may be.

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Posting on walls – virtual vs real

The #FreeRepublicOfRepetition project has ended. At least, it has in terms of the frenzied 27-hour social media / post-it note production process. It may yet be the starting point of my next project. It may not. I don’t know yet. Watch this space. I need to now sit back, reflect, and think.

I feel a big sense of relief now that I have ‘finished’. I am no longer writing #FreeRepublicofRepetition’ over and over and again and pouring out my thoughts onto paper. I am not clock watching so that I don’t forget to post to Facebook, Twitter and Instagram on the hour every hour. The pressure to think of a new way to present #FreeRepublicofRepetition in materials (such as Lego, paper, wool) has gone.

My feet

My feet – and #Fr – where are they?

Although I have nothing solid to show for the last two days (my studio walls are still bare), I feel I have achieved a lot and I have something worthwhile in my head.

I’ve had such fun doing this. I’ve really enjoyed pouring my random thoughts onto paper and spreading them around the top floor of the Wolverhampton School of Art. I’ve soaked up the reactions.

After the task ended, at 3pm today, we had a group-crit. I was the first to face the ‘firing squad’. I briefly introduced the work and waited for a reaction. I had no notion of what it would be.

One student told me that she’d tried to google ‘#FreeRepublicofRepetition’ once the notes started appearing and the top hit was a website about Barack Obama. Another student said that she’d worried that she was supposed to know what it was about. A third told me that as more notes appeared, he began to feel quite annoyed. That was exactly the response I wanted. It was a virus, and as a virus spreads, that is quite annoying. That was also, I imagine, the social media reaction as well.

Some of my notes

Some of my notes

Hearing this feedback, I had a thought about the two strands of the project: the social media strand and the real life strand. There is an interesting relationship between posting personal information to social media and posting personal information on the walls of the art building in Wolverhampton. The more I got into the task of the notes, the more bizarre and personal the messages got. I shared information that I might not otherwise have offered,  such as the fact I’d been ill earlier in the week, what I like to eat, my thoughts about this task and odd facts about my life. The messages had started off being manifestos for the Free Republic of Repetition, this mythical political group, and ended up being personal manifestos and ditties. I became the Free Republic of Repetition. I don’t know why that is.

Some more of my notes

Some more of my notes

I’m intrigued that I didn’t once run out of things to say. It just flowed and flowed and flowed. I could have carried on. Some days I am like that on social media as well.

More notes

More notes

However, as people responded to me face-to-face with their reactions to individual posts, I felt an odd and unsettling feeling of exposure. If I had posted the equivalent information to Facebook and they had responded with a comment to the post in exactly the same way, I wouldn’t have felt so vulnerable. Social media removes us from ourselves and others. It is a barrier between the two. There was no barrier as I exposed some aspects of myself on the walls of Wolverhampton Art School. But what is the difference between doing that and writing personal things on Facebook? Semantically, nothing. But psychologically, quite a lot.

That is an interesting idea. One which, I will conjugate over the next few days. This project has three main themes: creating a virus (ironically, just as a I was recovering from one), creating something with no tangible meaning in order to incite or confuse (or at least observe the reaction of) and the contrast between exposing information in the real worlds and the virtual worlds. I turned the 7th Floor into my Facebook page and it was really, rather weird.





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Hashtag Free Republic of Repetition

Today was my first day back at Wolverhampton and I and the other Level 6 students were set a challenge to be completed in 27 hours. The challenge read thus:

Process / Context

  • Take last year’s work as a starting point.
  • Define an action which can be repeated.
  • What material can carry out the process, at what point do you lose control of the material and the material controls you?
  • To what extent can this action be repeated / is there an end point?
  • How do you document the process?

At first, I was stuck. I don’t generally consider myself an artist of process. I’m not a messy artist. I wasn’t interested in being fluid with paint or other art materials or in exploring how I could make paint behave under a given set of conditions. I’m not a free artist. I don’t want to explore my inner ego by way of bodily action and the like. I’d rather live in ignorance about what is going on inside my head. I am an explorer and an observer of people and objects. I’m an outward facing artist. This project, I concluded, was not for me. (Although I felt that I should try these things.) Also, the idea of doing something repetitive didn’t appeal. I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do.

I then came up with a few vague ideas but mainly because I felt that I had to: a time-lapse video of change (people going in and out of the lift, the light changing in the studio), mapping traffic of people in a graphic way or logging something about my day. But then, talking to one of the tutors just as we were about to start on our ‘ideas’, he gave me a better idea. I sort of stole his idea. But it became mine so I ran with it.

All of the students had been split into two groups and this tutor and I decided that our group should have a name. He came up with the idea of The Free Republic of Repetition. We decided that this should be tweeted and shared on social media. This appealed to me. I love social media. What’s not to love? He said, ‘It needs to go viral!’ My response, ‘challenge accepted!’


I then thought that despite what I had previously concluded about this project, perhaps I am an artist of process. The balloon project of last year was 90% process and only about 10% final product. I loved the development of that project. At the time I worried that it was too much process. In fact, my final piece in the degree show looked rather pathetic if you judge it on quantity. It was quite small (a sound piece and three bronze objects). I just hadn’t connected that sort of process with the sort of process needed for this mini-project. So in fact, this task was written for me!

I started by tweeting #freerepublicofrepetition. I tagged Fine Art Wolverhampton and Wolverhampton Fine Arts (or variations thereof). They liked and retweated. I then turned to Facebook. I updated my status with the hashtag sentence. I added it to local groups, art groups, Wolverhampton groups and random other groups.

I also found some paper and a pen and started making strips to put around the building.

My strips by the lift

My strips by the lift

My hand soon got tired. It is hard to write #freerepublicofrepetition over and over again. Indeed, repetition is hard. I became quite determined to create as many as I could in the time I had. It was a laborous activity. It wasn’t creative. I worked feverishly.

Then, bored of just writing the same sentence over and over again, I started to add my own thoughts below. Sentences such as: ‘What is it all about?’ ‘I’ll be saying this in my sleep’, ‘Who is Keith?’, and ‘Is this art?’ Also ‘My hand hurts’ and ‘I have a headache’.

Every hour I tweeted again, tagged random people (optimistically, Justin Bieber and Brittany Spears). Some people retweeted. Most didn’t (neither Justin or Brittany did). But some is enough. The Facebook response has been less enthusiastic so far.

On the way home, I carried on creating notes using post-it notes and I posted them on the train, at the train station, and on random lampposts on the way home. My children helped me.

These post-it notes (and also the strips of paper) are leaving a trace of my movements and my thoughts over the 27-hour period. I feel like Gretel. But I like that aspect of this strange project. There are bits of me from Shrewsbury train station, to Crowmoor Primary School, and from Crowmoor Primary School, to my house.

On a random bin

On a random bin

On a lamppost

On a lamppost

At home, I decided to ‘write’ the sentence using different materials.

Firstly, collage.

Not a ransom note

Not a ransom note

Then rice.

Not for eating

Not for eating

In bits of wool, being watched by a cat.

The cat is amused

The cat is amused

Every hour, I tweeted these images. I also recorded my children and husband saying ‘hashtag free republic of repetition’ and posted these. If I had more time, I’d get strangers to do it too.

It is now 10pm. I am exhausted. I have a headache. I can’t take any more. I am writing this blog with very little energy left to put out there. But I will persevere a bit longer today and keep going until I’ve written this at least.

If I were twenty years younger I’d set my alarm for every hour and post an hourly countdown to 3pm Thursday when the project ends.

So what’s the point?

The point is to spread a sentence and to create a virus. After all, a virus is fairly pointless. If it isn’t a killer virus, it has no evolutionary purpose. It just makes you feel ill for a couple of days and keeps you off work. So it has very little reason to exist. Just like this virus. It has no ultimate meaning. It just wanted to spread as far as possible and I am acting as the facilitator.

What I am doing is also repetitive and I want to see what I can learn from carrying out something monotonous and laborious. I hoped to get an online reaction. I’m not sure that I have spread the sentence a very far out there in the stratosphere of social media but I’ve done my best in the few hours I’ve had so far. I have certainly spent the time doing something very laborious to the extent that I can’t take much more of it today. I have had some reaction from the public: mostly passive, some slightly confused and some slightly positive.

The ultimate aim is to generate excitement and interest in something that is intangible. Why? Because it is fun and it passes the time. The sentence is meaningless. There is no great event at 3pm on 29th September. The Free Republic of Repetition isn’t an organization. It is just a name conjured out of nowhere to describe half of the Level 6 students carrying out a small task. But I want people to think that there is something exciting going on. They are involved in the process. They are part of the process. The process is an imagined excitement that builds up to nothing: the second will pass, and it will soon be 3.01pm. We will all move on and start thinking about what to eat for tea.

There is no end product. That doesn’t matter. There will be nothing to hold on to from these two days except the experience and photographs. The tweets and status updates on Facebook and Instagram will very shortly drift into the past and be forgotten. The social media world is terribly fickle.

I wanted to create a momentum. It has been interesting.

What have I learnt?

I get quite obsessed quite easily and quickly. Repetition can be addictive.

How much fun it can be to create something out of nothing and big up something that doesn’t exist. I’ve also learnt that people expect to understand everything and if they don’t, they are confused. But that confusion in itself is interesting.

I’ve also learnt that it doesn’t matter how many times you write something down, you (or I) still can’t spell the words correctly. If you write the words in a different media, then that makes it worse.

Spot the typo

Spot the typo

To answer the original questions:

  • Take last year’s work as a starting point. I guess I sort of did. Last year’s work was about collecting something (balloons), getting people excited by something (balloons), and creating an artwork to document the process (a sound piece listing the balloon finds).
  • Define an action which can be repeated. Typing and writing #freerepublicofrepetition over and over again. And again.
  • What material can carry out the process, at what point do you lose control of the material and the material controls you? My hands and social media, post-it notes, paper and a pen. I feel as if I have lost control. My head is aching, my eyes are swimming. I feel nauseous. My mind is balancing on the edge of sanity (or is that just me being a little dramatic?)
  • To what extent can this action be repeated / is there an end point? The end point is 3pm tomorrow. I can do as much or as little as I want within waking hours between then and now.
  • How do you document the process? With my iPhone and in this blog.

So that’s what #freerepublicofrepetition means.


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Where is my studio? And is it dirty enough?

Today I attended a symposium on Dirty Practice, at the Arena Theatre in Wolverhampton, run by the Wolverhampton School of Art. This symposium was a culmination of a three-day art workshop open to art practitioners, academics and students. I couldn’t attend the workshop but I could just about take a day off the treadmill of children and work for the symposium. I nearly didn’t make it thanks to a poorly child. But I’m so glad I did, not just because of the fabulous lunch at Zuri Coffee which was divine. But because of the papers that were presented, the thought they provoked and the resulting discussion towards the end of the day.

A very yummy lunch

A very yummy lunch

I’m not going to go into detail about all of the themes of the day, of which there were many. Although two presentations stand out for me: Andrew Bracey and Elizabeth Wright talking about (and demonstrating) the idea that ‘the doing of thinking is not a hands free conversation’ which was essentially about the benefits of kinetic learning and how the hands may actually guide the brain, rather than visa versa. Also, Holly Crawford’s obscurely titled ‘Ants on a Shrimp, Thoughts’ for which Holly read out, or invited members of the audience to read out, snippets of a narrative taken directly from a short video written on postcards. The narrative (or the chosen phrases from it) were relevant to the age-old creative dilemmas of lack of confidence and self-identity. Some were oddly relevant to the people to which they were given (I had ‘Normal persons do not understand what we’re doing’ – that fear bugs the hell out of me all the time – and ‘Whatever’ which perhaps is the best response to the former).

My cards

My cards

Both presentations were utterly brilliant (as were the others). I have always been a kinetic learner. I’ve always been bedeviled (no irony intended) with a need to fiddle constantly. I hate that people think if you doodle, fiddle or play you aren’t listening. and Andrew Bracey and Elizabeth Wright’s presentation gave me some affirmation that I am normal. Holly’s bizarre yet effective way of expressing an idea was engaging and amusing. I’m going to keep the postcards I caught and picked up off the ground to give me hope on days when the ideas don’t flow.

One of the cards I took home

One of the cards I took home

However, the day’s thought and discussion in its entirety gave me the chance to think about my own working practice and reflect on whether I make the most of the ‘studio’ space and what it might mean to me to engage in ‘dirty practice’. There was a lot of talk about the studio environment and how it has changed in the digital age and the age of social engagement. It has also evolved to account for the modern not-quite-yet-post-capitalist notion of a degree as consumption for future economic gain rather than as personal exploration for exploration’s sake. These essential questions were oft asked: how is the studio perceived by those who use it and how does it function for them?

Holly throwing her cards.

Holly throwing her cards.

Since I began my rather late art education I have been given the opportunity to have a studio space. Firstly, at Shrewsbury College of Art and Technology. Here, between four people we were given a huge room with lots of white walls to fill with art. The result? Nobody put much, if any, art on the walls. I don’t quite know why. We all worked hard. We all fulfilled the criteria for the course. But for a long time, we didn’t fully utilise the space given to us. I don’t think we ever really did. We didn’t realise how lucky we were (sadly, we were the last students to take the course – no explanation needed). Then, last year at Wolverhampton Art School, I was given a small corner. At Wolverhampton, space is precious and fought over. Going from an enormous room to a precious corner had an interesting effect on me. I went from hardly putting anything on the walls to filling the tiny space with art and piling my desk with paintings, drawings, and bits of clay and plaster.

However, before I went to SCAT, I didn’t have a studio space. I worked at home. I worked wherever I could at home. Being given a designated studio space made me much more conscious of my output. It focussed my mind and forced me to think more deeply (this was A Good Thing).

At both SCAT and at Wolverhampton, I have tended to use my studio time more for thinking than creating (although to date I have done more creating at the latter). The time I spend in the studio is perhaps forced, but as a consequence, it is productive. I would love a world where I could spend hours and hours in the studio (what the tutors crave from their students). But, I can’t. I have children and a job. So the times spent there are precious and focused.

So my conclusion from today is that my studio lies in many places: it is in the physical art school studio with white walls and a grey floor (fairly generic and this description probably fits most art schools in the UK), it is on Arriva Trains Wales (the 8.33 from Shrewsbury and the 15.42 from Wolverhampton), it is here where I am sat now (on the right-hand side of the sofa in front of the TV and to the left of the ironing board), it is on the school run, it is in the car, it is at Zumba (where the best ideas come to me), it is in bed, it is in the bath and it is in Ginger & Co. coffee shop. It is especially in Ginger & Co. coffee shop. My studio is everywhere. It follows me around. It doesn’t even let me sleep. The studio doesn’t have to be a physical space. It is a movable feast. It is in the mind.

So does it matter what the physical art studio looks like? Does it need to be dirty? I suspect I could do with a bit more dirt and chaos in my mind and physical space. So long as that space inspires, whether it have clean white walls, dirty floors, be a train full of people going to Butlins, be an Americano with milk, or be my semi-conscious state, that is the most important thing.

I spend a lot of time in arty cafes

I spend a lot of time in arty cafes



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My new favourite word: Flâneur

I recently came across this word in a funny little book I found in a funny little art shop in London: Patrick Keller’s The View from the Train. This book is a collection of essays which explain Keller’s work and how he came to produce films such as London and Robinson in Space, his influences, his own philosophy and artistic practice. As I’ve seen these films, and loved them, this book caught my attention. It isn’t disappointing me. It’s a fascinating little book. I recommend it. It is a bit geeky but it is very good.

My book

My book

In one of the essays, Keller discusses the idea of the flâneur, a term coined by Charles Baudelaire in The Painter of Modern Life and Other Essays, which I have subsequently read. The flâneur is a literary motif for a wanderer or dreamer. Translated into English it means: stroller, loafer or lounger. However, in contemporary life it is more than that.

The flâneur frequents coffee shops to watch and observe the everyday. This figure was first seen in 19th-century Paris. The modern flâneur might be Martin Parr or Joel Meyerowitz with their posh cameras and people-watching skills. The original flâneur was just someone with too much time on their hand and an ability to hide interest behind a facade of boredom.

The flâneur is Edgar Allen Poe’s ‘man of the crowd’. The flâneur observes places and people, and also objects. They are able to take metaphorical (and literal) snap shots of urban life. The flâneur is more aware than other people of the beauty of the everyday and, crucially, they are able to translate it into something of substance. As Baudelaire describes this person: ‘Sometimes he is a poet; more often he comes closer to the novelist or the moralist; he is the painter of the passing moment and of all the suggestions of eternity that it contains’ (Baudelaire, p. 5). Baudelaire describes this person as curious.

Curiosity is certainly what mostly defines them. He also describes them as akin to a child or to someone returning from a period of illness. They are an ‘eternal convalescent’ (ibid, p. 8). They are hyper aware. A child sees everything as if in a state of newness, as does the flâneur. They observe form and colour in a state of delight, just as a child might. Colours are heightened. Form is exciting. However, they differ from the child in that they are able to do something with what they see and condense it into something meaningful. They, therefore, are also a genius, says Baudelaire. The flâneur is at home everywhere. Yet he can remain hidden: ‘He is an “I” with an insatiable appetite for the “non-I”‘ (ibid, p. 9).

Charles Baudelaire, thinking about the loungers of Paris

Charles Baudelaire, thinking about the lazy cats of Paris

Although I would argue against the ‘genius’ part of the definition (I am not exactly on the same plane of cerebral glory as more famous flâneurs in the art world), I feel that this word belongs to me.

I LOVE coffee shops. When I am in a coffee shop (which turns out to be most days), I sit, I watch, I listen, I draw, I note down, I think and I have ideas. Most of these ideas are lost before I get home but they come to me in coffee shops when I am surrounded by ordinary people like me, drinking coffee and reading the paper, checking their phone or talking to their companion. I love people. I love the urban landscape. I love the mundane, the ordinary, the everyday, the minute, the timy moments and the sudden glimpses I get of treasure when I overhear an exchange or see a face or a form. Most of all, I love coffee.

I spend a lot of time in arty cafes

I spend a lot of time in arty cafes

So I will no longer feel guilty about my daily coffee stops. I’m not procrastinating. I’m not being lazy. I’m being a flâneur.


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Everyone should ‘get’ conceptual art or there is no point

This is what I think about conceptual art (which these days has morphed into almost all forms of art except the purely decorative): everyone should ‘get’ it and if they don’t then it has failed.

The term ‘conceptual art’ automatically turns a lot of people off. It shouldn’t. It is often viewed as self-absorbed, intellectually snobbish and abstract. In other words: there can be an immediate prejudice that anything labelled as conceptual art will be pretentious crap. Perhaps a lot of it is, but not all of it.

What is art?

What is art?

Until recently, I didn’t view myself as a conceptual artist but since returning to the world of education I have come to the conclusion that that is exactly what I am. My art tends to stem from a concept. The concept comes to me at 3am or during Zumba, the craft follows. I spend an awful lot of time thinking and conjugating before I put pen or pencil to paper. But more than anything else, I want people to get it and to be moved by it. I want them to think I have skill but I also want them to understand and think.

I don’t want to be intellectually superior and to confuse, or worse, be ignored. In an ideal world, it would be nice if my art could move both the thinkers and critics and my mum.

What exactly is conceptual art? It is the process of playing with an idea. It is a method rather than a medium. It is a thought. It is a provocation. It is humour. It is a play on words or a play on images. It messes with normality. It refracts accepted notions. That is why I love it. I think it is a largely misunderstood ‘genre’ (if it can be called that). I love anything that is quirky and odd. Conceptual art is odd.

However, isn’t everyone these days a conceptual artist, at least to some extent? In this data-driven age when everyone is online, then anyone who has a camera phone or a sense of humour and time to point out the oddness of life is a conceptual artist.

A bad piece of conceptual art renders you wondering if the idea it is analysing is worth pondering. A good piece will enter your thoughts for days after and will keep you searching. It will inspire you. If it inspires an artist or an art student, result. If it inspires my mum, gold star.

Ideally, good conceptual art doesn’t require explanation. It should be evident. Or at least, there should be several evidents. Everyone, after all, sees art differently but they should see something.

The main problem with every day conceptual art is that it has no tangible, economic value. If I want to be a conceptual artist, I won’t be able to give up the day job (project manager and editor, and occasional writer, in the book publishing world). I don’t foresee a fortune in my art. But I will keep doing it regardless. I will keep having ideas and exploring them for whoever is listening.

Are you listening? I hope so. And if you are, I hope you get it.




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Am I more creative in a jigsaw skirt than I am in Levis?

Perhaps this sounds a little nuts but I’m convinced that I feel more creative when I am wearing certain clothes compared to others. Generally, I feel more creative in skirts. I don’t feel at all creative in jeans or trousers (I very rarely wear jeans), but I do in leggings. I am sure that I would feel the opposite of creative in Marks and Spencers elasticated slacks. I haven’t tried out this theory yet but this is perhaps an idea to park in my Big Book of Future Ideas.

I have a skirt that whenever I wear it, I feel much more creative than in other garments. It is a skirt that I believe came from Jigsaw. I’ve had it for quite a few years. I think it was either in the sale or it came from Bicester Village (so it was cheaper than normal – I don’t want anyone reading this to think I am rich enough to shop in Jigsaw). It may have been purchased shortly after my first child was born and before the second. I’m not entirely sure. I don’t think it was purchased before any children came along. But what I am sure about is that whenever I wear it, I feel more creative than on other days.

This isn't my skirt, but it is brown and it is from JIgsaw

This isn’t my skirt, but it is brown and it is from JIgsaw

I know of no other artist who prefers or preferred to make or paint in certain clothes. A quick goggle reveals no information on the topic. Does this mean that I am unique in my weirdness? The only thing I found on the Internet related to this query was a wikiHow page on four steps on how to dress like an artist. This is not hugely helpful. (It is, however, rather amusing.)

I suppose that this is one step away from having lucky pants. I don’t want to get to the stage when artist’s block renders me wearing the same skirt every day for a month in a vain attempt to reign in an idea from the ether.

I haven’t quite got that desperate yet.

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