// Are You an Artist?
Two different strangers asked me the same question. I wasn’t ready for it either time.
A post about identity, creative practice, and the masks we wear to avoid answering things honestly.
Also: Supersonic festival, Halima Cassell’s ceramics, and a coffee shop conversation I’m glad I had.
Recently I spent a weekend at the excellent Supersonic festival in Birmingham with my dear friend Henry Cooke.
The festival was incredible. The curation and general vibe of the two days were themes of radical acceptance, anarchic resistance and communal hope and the music was challenging in all the best ways. The highlights for me were Milkweed, Guttersnipe and Prostitute and it was great to meet and chat to Black Lodge Press in person.
While we were in Birmingham we made a point of going to Ikon because it’d be rude not to.
Both of us were blown away by the work of Halima Cassell, whose work was part of Break The Mould. The last in a series of exhibitions about craft, art school pedagogies and contemporary art practice. The focus was on ceramics, positioning clay as a site of experimentation.
Halima’s contribution was simple to describe, but it got deeper the more you sat with it. A series of decorative bowl-like objects made from local clay gathered at locations all over the world. Each bowl a similar shape, but a different colour with the properties of the clay doing that work. On closer inspection, the ornate patterning on every bowl was unique.
The idea is simple but it gets deeper the longer you sit with it. Every bowl is the same shape. That most ancient and universal of human forms. The vessel. The thing we use to carry, to share, to offer. But the colour comes entirely from the clay itself, gathered from specific locations all over the world. Each bowl is a portrait of a place. Of everything that ever lived and died in that ground. Up close the patterning is different on every single one. The same but not the same. Individually they were beautiful. Together they were something else entirely.
What made the visit even more special was that Halima was there herself, making a bowl. We had a wonderful conversation about how her work connected with everything we’d been talking about that weekend.
The serendipity of finding it wasn’t lost on either of us.
Then she asked us if we were artists.
Am I an artist?
It was awkward.
We both struggled. Halima smiled and said “It’s funny how many artists struggle to say they’re an artist.”
We left mulling that over.
Henry is an artist, even if he rarely says so. His approach to technology and creativity is rooted in curiosity, play, and the desire to communicate something deeper than the technology itself. He asks questions and prods at answers with his work. The tech he makes is like Halima’s bowls. The craft is high, but the art is in the approach. Henry brings an artist’s mind to everything he does. That’s why I hold him in such high esteem.
I grew up with art as the backbone of my life. My dad is an artist. I went to performing arts school to study music and sound engineering, later studied fine art and graphics. I was a musician long before I became a web designer by accident. I derive far more joy from making, listening to and talking about music and art than I do from being a tech strategist. My actual job is hard to explain to people outside the industry. I usually end up saying “I make apps” to save time.
Today is my first day decompressing after leaving my corporate tech job to focus on my health and the wellbeing of my family for the time being. My dad is 93 and has dementia. The pressure of his care, and the toll of watching his condition worsen, has been immense. Something had to give. The stress of corporate life during a period of big organisational change had to take a back seat in favour of the things that actually matter. I’m not going to look back when I’m in my dad’s position and think “Well at least I met my OKRs.”
Are you an artist?
This morning I was in a local coffee shop, having a quiet contemplative moment on my first day of post-corporate decompression, when an impromptu conversation kicked off with the people at the next table. One of them is a bona fide, successful artist I already know and one of them hosts a podcast that focuses on people who’ve made big changes in their lives. The right conversation, with the right people, on the right day. I’ve tentatively agreed to be a guest. More on that soon.
The main reason for this post is that the “Are you an artist?” question came up again later. I was paying for my lunch at another local café when, completely unprompted, the guy behind the counter asked if I was an artist.
The usual flash of anxiety, the bracing for the convoluted answer about technology and innovation strategy and, fuck it, “I make apps” began to rise before a calm composure settled in its place.
“Yes I am.”
I do think I am an artist, above everything else. The more I’ve learned about myself over the last few years, the more I’ve recognised how many masks I’ve worn to fit and comply with the expectations of the world around me. Corporate “success” and the trappings that come with it are masks. I’m successful in other people’s eyes, but I’m not entirely sure what success means to me.
I do know that a big part of it is being honest about what brings me joy. I need the income, but I could manage without the stresses of corporate life. I could never manage without art. I might be a strategy, design and innovation consultant to pay the bills, but the playful curiosity I bring to that work comes from my art practice. That’s always been the case since the beginning of my career in tech.
I am an artist.
The moment I said yes, it felt like a significant nudge to start looking at things through the right lens.
The right situations and the right questions tend to arrive at exactly the right time. The universe giggles at you in wonderful ways.
It happened today, and I’m very grateful. Coincidences flock together when you’re open to them.
I'd love to tell you more.
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