As a kid, I thought of artists as the chosen few, I s’pose. Possessing a gift God-given and which set them apart.
More’s the pity. If we had been taught that art was ours – for us to freely view and to freely make, perhaps the world might be a better place? I am part of a generation that was conditioned to believe that unless I could depict a life-like horse in pencil relief, then art wasn’t for me.
I remember that making art at school gave me a wonderful sense of freedom, of quiet excitement. But more than that, I also remember from a very young age being excited by the idea of something of me existing in the world – separate from me and unique. As a very young child at playschool I eschewed the rocking horses, the dressing-up box, the sand-pit for the paint pot. I loved the smell and texture of the little tubs of primary colour.
I moved on from painting rudimentary flowers with a large sun in the corner of the paper to daubing paint on in great thick swathes. My colour of choice was blue – I enjoyed its intensity. It was dynamic – changing the texture of the paper to something damp and pliable – charging the air around me with the scent of the paint. I felt I could dive into the rectangular blue space and I enjoyed the feeling.
I was soon discouraged from painting. I say discouraged. I was barred, lol! Directed over to the sandpit instead. And so I grew up not believing I was creative in any way. Along would come the familiar and much over-used ‘I can’t draw!’ and that was that.
Tracey Emin came along in the early ’90s whilst I was pre-occupied by my new role of wife and mother, too resentful of her pissed-up exploits to take any notice. It was only when I arrived at my mid-thirties that I picked up a camera to record the life that was passing by without properly making it’s mark.
The dissolving of Susan Mary Simpson, into the fabric of family life had meant my recollections of the previous 15 years were blurred and I wanted to create an in-focus timeframe, where I could clearly see life’s various and varying progressions.
This new era of creating was liberating and I got the feeling that being creative in some form mattered and was not something I would give up easily. And I didn’t. Here I am. I call myself an artist and I am anxious and keen to continue to make art that allows me to explain life as I see it.
Hurray! A happy ending? Yes – yes it is – but the conditioning that I spoke about earlier insists on making itself felt on a regular basis.
I find myself having to ‘work up’ to creating art; having to mentally prepare myself by underpinning my worthiness, my achievements as an artist. To remind myself that it’s important. Imposter syndrome I think is what its called. People from my background were encouraged to find a steady job. Steady meaning, shurrup and get some money earned. I’m pissing about with clay. The trick is to accept that niggling voice’s existence and to crack on being true to that part of me that loved to cock-a-snoop and daub all those years ago 🙂 .
Susan Simpson 