Sometimes it’s difficult not to look back and wonder where I might be now if I had found the courage to believe in my artistic abilities earlier in my life. The painting of Butler seems to be something of a milestone for me, and I did that back in about 2005, I think, when I was just over thirty. I was very proud of that painting and I still am. So, why then, in 2005, did I not think that this was a past-time worth pursuing more vigorously? I can’t really remember exactly how I was feeling about my artistic abilities then, but it’s almost certain my confidence was still very low, and the inner critic was very much in control, telling me that one good painting is not good enough, and that, unbelievably, it was already too late. That was always one of his favourites - ‘if you were an artist, you would have been drawing and painting regularly from your teenage years, at the latest. You’re in your thirties now - way too late to start seeing yourself differently and realising your potential.’
Something has changed, but sometimes I still doubt that it’s enough. I have loads of ideas for paintings these days, but at my current completion rate I worry that I will never have enough time to do them all. But it is great that I have loads of ideas. I think that was one of the problems earlier in my life - I wanted to paint, but I couldn’t think of anything to paint, oddly enough. I guess half a lifetime of experiences has given me a lot of subject matter to work with. But also I think differently now, more artistically. I seem to be able to appreciate the aesthetics of things more than I used to when I was younger, with a better appreciation of composition and colour. Typical of me to discover these things more than halfway through my life, perhaps even further through the period where I am able to create. Ah well, hindsight is a wonderful thing. Best make the most of it while I still can, I guess.
So what changed? Why am I able to see like this now? I think it’s fair to say I didn’t have a childhood conducive to the development my strengths and interests. I certainly lacked courage and confidence. I remember always wanting to draw and paint, but from a quite an early age, I believed that I couldn’t. I think this is partly because my first fumbling attempts weren’t very good. Which is no surprise. It’s the same for just about every artist, I’m sure. But many other artists just keep on trying, knowing that it takes practise, hard work and dedication to be good at something. But no matter how many times I was told this by other people, somehow I didn’t believe it applied to me. Early on, I acquired the belief that you were born being able to draw and paint. It was a natural talent that did not require practise and nurturing and perseverance. And I believed that because I couldn’t draw naturally, innately, I wasn’t an artist. I’m not sure where this came from. My mother tried hard to support me and encourage me. My father didn’t, but then again, he wasn’t critical either. He just never said anything. Perhaps I took that silence as criticism. I guess I’ll never know.
But there was an outside world too. Back in the eighties, one problem was that most artwork was only seen when finished and published. You were likely to only ever see the final, polished product, as published in a book or hanging in a gallery. There was little chance to see an artist’s work in progress and hear about their working methods, creative troubles, and all the hard work they had to put in to complete a piece of artwork. I don’t know how much that would have helped me, though. It obviously didn’t deter other artists, so the critic must have already been at work to hold me back.
Then there was education. I was encouraged to draw and paint at school, but certainly by the time I got to secondary, the critic was already well in control and I struggled to believe I had any artistic ability. I rarely drew or painted at home, regardless of how many times people told me that if I wanted to, I should, and that by practising, I would get better. Somehow I was allowed to take my art GCSE a year early, but I don’t think I saw it as a vote of confidence. I seem to recall I thought it was some kind of mistake. I got a grade C (very average), which I think only served to sow even more seeds of doubt in my mind. I continued with art into A-level, and once again scraped a grade C (very average again). Moving on to University, I started an art course, but felt no better about my abilities and dropped it as soon as I could. And that was that for many years, with just the odd artistic dabble here and there, which usually came to nothing
But towards the end of my forties, I picked up the dusty paints and brushes again, and thought I’d have another go. A real turning point was painting the portrait of my late father-in-law for my wife’s birthday. It went much better than expected and was well received. And, perhaps most importantly, and unusually, I really enjoyed painting it and wanted to paint some more. And so I did, and I’ve been painting consistently every since.
But my experience is hardly unusual. Many people discover their artistic sensibilities later in life, especially during middle age when they come to reflect on what has gone before and what is yet to come. And they ask themselves ‘what do I really want to be doing? What do I regret not doing when I was younger?’
So, it’s easy to wonder about what might have been if I’d believed in myself more when I was younger, but there’s no point looking back in regret. I guess I just have to accept that the right time has come. I wasn’t ready earlier in my life, but now I am.
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