What Ghosts, House Moves & Art Have in Common

I've always loved the unknown. 

As a teenager I subscribed to magazines about the paranormal (and even now I want to believe in ghosts!).

All throughout my life, I've sought out the new, and I easily get bored when things get too "samey." I spend hours on Rightmove imagining different lives and all of them excite me. Every now and then, I make a huge change and one of them becomes reality. First Canada, then the US, then back home to Yorkshire and now a new venture in Cumbria.

I used to think it was a problem, but now I see it as a strength. Don't get me wrong, constantly changing has its downsides. I don't get the stability or constancy that many people have, but there are always costs to whatever choice we make and I'm OK with this one.

Especially because I think it's valuable when it comes to art-making. Artists live in ambiguity, as do all creative people. We never know what we will make next. We can't see our creative future - all we can see is the trail of things we have made in the past. Sometimes this murky future is exciting, but often it can feel destabilising, and even frightening .... what if I can't do it again? What if I have lost my abilities? Maybe I should have kept making the kind of art I used to make? 

On my current course Momentum, people are asking lots of great questions and we do our best to answer, but sometimes the questions are things we simply can't address. Because they are about the future of the student's art. These artists are seeking answers that are impossible to think of - they must be painted towards.

Let's say someone says:

"I want to make a series of emotional portraits of the women in my family. But how do I convey in paint my feelings about these people?" 

There is simply no answer to this question.

I don't know. And no matter how hard they try, neither do they.

They may have some starting points ... perhaps they know they want to use only cool blues and greens, and that they'd like to work with oil paints on large canvases. Perhaps they even have some ideas of models and poses. But beyond that, they simply have to start painting and see what happens.

There is a role for thinking, of course, but it has to come throughout the painting process, not before the painting begins. 

If you simply begin to paint, things will happen. Either, the paintings will go amazingly well and you'll be thrilled with them OR (and more likely) you'll run into issues along the way.

When something goes 'wrong,' and the paintings aren't working, that's when you need to bring in the analytical side of your brain, because now you have something to react to. "Problems" are not really problems - they're clues. They are giving you a clear indication of what not to do, and you can now react. 

I find that things go wrong when I don't stop to listen to these clues. If I barrel on through, trying my best to make the painting work, it almost always gets worse. The key is to pause, step back, and look at things with an emotional distance. Don't make a single change until you are very clear about what you're doing and why. 

So, I take some time away from the paintings. I journal about them. I think about them on walks or in the bath. I get them out and look at them. But I do not allow myself to edit anything until I have thought it through.

Sometimes the issue is a lack of clarity from the beginning.

Sometimes the problem is that I have lost interest in my original intention, but I haven't clarified a new one.

Sometimes it's just a case of tuning back into that intention, noticing all the ways I'm not currently hitting the mark, and then making some purposeful changes. 

But always, always, what's required of me is to be patient with myself and comfortable with the unknown. After I clarify my intention or make a new plan of action, I still have to execute it in paint with no clear idea of the ultimate result. My new plan may result in finished paintings, or it may lead to another seeming dead end, and the need to step back again and rethink. I won't know until I try.

Creating anything is a journey. Some parts are easy, some parts are uphill, and some parts get rocky. But unlike a real life journey, there is no map. Literally no-one has been where you are trying to go. You are heading into the unknown, like one of those old-timey explorers, and you will draw the map as you go.

That's why I think my love of the unknown has turned out to be a blessing—and why I believe it's something every artist needs to embrace.

Because the truth is, if you want to create something truly new, you have to step into the dark without a map. There’s no blueprint, no set of instructions, no guarantee of success. And yet, this is exactly where the magic happens—not in certainty, but in exploration.

The artists who thrive aren’t the ones who wait for clarity before they begin. They’re the ones who start anyway, trusting that the answers will come through the work itself.

So instead of fearing the unknown, make it your ally. Let it excite you instead of paralyze you. Instead of asking, “What if I fail?” try asking, “What might I discover?”

Because the unknown isn’t something to avoid—it’s the very thing that makes art possible.