the suns we orbit

we are the best and worst versions of ourselves in the art we create

I’ve been waking up to white skies unsure if the clouds are suspended in the air or are non-existent. It’s all a blur, yet all I know is the sky is white when I wake up in the dead of night at 3am and remains white at 1pm in the afternoon that same day. There are birds in the sky that should have migrated elsewhere by now, but yet, they’re still here in abundance. Autumn lingered a little longer and I worried that the leaves would never leave, even now in January there are still leaves on the ground and winter feels nothing like it did a few years ago, and looks nothing like it does in Stardew Valley.

Hefty squirrels run up fences stealing bird food in birdfeeders, they dig holes in the grass that should be straw-coloured but are not; and as I watch white skies turn grey, the hue of London dimming as life continues. The shift from autumn to Halloween to Christmas to New Years expanding and deflating in populations on the street, I people-watch on trains, on the tube where earphones are nestled in ears and wonder how we can all exist in one space, experience and feel the same motions, whilst simultaneously existing in our own galaxies. I always wonder what people are listening to when I pass them on the street, on their way to work on the tube dead to the world yet fully alive in their minds. A head in a book, a smile offered yet we will all leave this place having experienced entirely different things because of the creativity we have chosen to orbit us. Whether it be taking notes on the shape of a person’s jeans and the way their jumper falls in accordance with their silhouette and the texture of their coat, entangled with the colours they’ve combined to complement their being. Or, the book held in hands, frowns shaping on a forehead, fingers grasping tightly to a kindle, escaped giggles at words on a page – we are existing within the same world, orbiting different galaxies.

Last year, 2024, I spent a lot of time observing and consuming art in various forms – music, books, films, tv shows, paintings, newsletters, poetry, reflections of the sun on a wall in the summer warmth, jewellery, sewing, food, handbags, the wrinkles on a person’s face, notebooks, clothes, photography – and it overwhelmed me. I can’t count the number of times I was brought to tears by the sheer beauty and talent that exists in this world – we are never lacking for beauty wherever we look.

I am a reluctant creative. I’m reluctant in putting myself out there as a person, despite creativity and creating being 70% of my essence, and if I’m being honest, over the past few years I’ve spent a lot of time being disappointed in my art because it was not seen or received as well as I believed it should be.

I held a substantial amount of my value in accolades and the acknowledgement of the effort and work that I’d put into baring my soul in a way that nobody besides me would understand (the irony). A conversation I had with a man I very briefly saw last year surprised me a little – he was confused as to why, as an artist, creative, I didn’t spend more time being a louder, larger than life, more expressive person (it’s funny how we expect to know so much about a person upon meeting them, when understanding people and building relationships is an art form within itself, but those are words for another day). But, two things can be true, I explained to him, that I can be proud of my art, talk about it, share it continuously and be someone who spends a lot of their time creating alone, who says little about their process because what you already see created is a reflection of my soul that doesn’t necessarily require explaining.

I’ve spent a lot of time with albums and songs, with books and the worlds created in them and on screens, too, that as a creative I’ve always appreciated but rarely ever wondered how much time, passion and dedication were poured into making something that will be consumed in less 40 minutes or 3 hours. The people we don’t see involved, the hours we don’t get to experience for the sake of putting art into the world, just because. Our world now, has been set up in a way that the art of longing, of yearning, of nesting, of being, of mundanity has drifted to demanding and receiving immediately, but anything worth creating, that is beautiful and moves you – whether good or bad – takes time.

At least 90% of my favourite artists released a substantial amount of music last year, after many years of silence from them they spent months being braggadocious about their art. Tours! Merch! Singles! Albums! Interviews! Gigs! Collaborations! I was never short of consumption; I had to take a minute to sit back and navigate how to spend my time intentionally consuming their art. And in my isolation, whilst I consumed, a pattern I noticed many of these creatives mentioned was the returning to themselves, to making art that felt true to them and the suns they have been orbiting in silence, in the quiet spaces, letting the art and their hearts lead them, away from the noise.

One thing often acknowledged, yet easily dismissed about being an artist/creative is the process of being an artist/creative; of observing the outer world, your inner world and the space between them. The small, easily missed moments that change your soul: the way someone says a word, the way you make your coffee, the routines honed over time that have settled your spirit. Often, the final thing that’s shared, pieces of the heart, the soul, the times, is served up on a shiny well-presented plate and we eat it up - we consume, consume, consume. In my year(s) of consumption, the less I created and the more I consumed, the more impatient I became with myself during the process of creating; and as a creative, rushing the process for the sake of something ‘being done’ never leads to work that mirrors the idea of what you truly wish to reflect. As I listened to interviews, listened to music, read the books, etc., my mind and heart were becoming rewired in understanding that even if no one sees my art, or appreciates the effort that went into it, it is still worth making and it is still worth sharing. It is worth value, because I have given it that, and even if it doesn’t see the light of day it is still worth making for the sake of expression and committing to myself.

Creating is expression, the trees will still exist even if nobody finds awe in them, the ocean will still be there even if its magnificence is not revered, a bird will still sing even if its song is not known or understood, it doesn’t mean their value or beauty does not exist. The back end of it is the fear of blooming in ways that you may also not be able to handle when it comes to pouring into art, into growing and expanding in ways that only matter to you and no one else.

We are the best and worst versions of ourselves in the art we create, in the suns that we orbit; there is fear and hope, and the best and worst parts of our humanity are magnified in creating & being an artist (in all manifestations of the word).