Cleaning out My Creative Closet
A frantic and fun summer with the kids came to a close. I found myself wallowing in their absence, traipsing around the local park with the dog, reluctantly alone again. The sudden promise of dark nights on the horizon and the inability to hide from dull but necessary work tasks had cornered me, so finally, I ordered that posh tin of paint and committed to decorating the studio. If I’m condemned to workdays alone, I can at least make it look nicer than the predictably half-complete hidey hole at the bottom of the garden.
For too long, I’ve been referring to my studio as ‘glorified shed,’ and it isn’t untrue. This wasn’t to do with the building, though. While modest, it’s a nice workshop; insulated and big enough to get three desks into it: a messy art desk, an office desk for my coaching calls and on-screen tasks, and a sound corner for podcasting and media, complete with sound-absorbing foam panels. While I designed it to feature two metres of actual shed space, via a little door and dividing wall, the shedness I refer to is more a reflection of my chaotic brain.
On Sunday, with most of its contents on the grass in the garden and the biggest bits of furniture dragged into the middle of the space, I had to confront a skeleton I’ve been hiding in my closet for my entire adult and adolescent life; proof that I’ve been a total fucking shambles when it comes to crucial organisational foundations.
I was genuinely close to tears as the hurtful truth reared up like a frightened horse and hoofed me in the bollocks. Maybe this is to do with neurodivergence. I don’t know. I’ve never sought any diagnosis for the way I am. At the very least, I have a very hard time completing tasks that don’t energise me creatively. I always have, often resulting in unnecessary drains on my energy; little piles of letters, books, drawings and tax forms everywhere, adding to an already scattered brain. It’s why I spent my GCSE revision time playing Final Fantasy VII and floundered in my results as a direct result. I hadn’t yet found the right outlet for my imagination and curiosity. I digress, but the magazines, mounds of stationery, unused Lever arch files and physical storage systems were out in the open, scattered across the lawn and I hated what I saw. The back of the ready-for-the-tip wooden IKEA cupboard I keep them all in hung off, its contents ready to jump for freedom at any moment. My work desk was completely covered with shite I either don’t need or am unlikely to use ever again. It needed clearing so I could resume working on Monday morning, but there was nowhere for it to go. So, I staggered into the house and unleashed a rant full of self-loathing upon my wife. I hissed insults at myself, told her I wished I could part-exchange a percentage of my puppy brain for some pragmatism and natural order, but she countered, reminding me that this same silly brain was also the reason I can write books, host shows, chair panels, and sustain a career in the creative industry in the 21st century.
I slumped back and blew my tea. She wasn’t wrong, and when I thought about it, I don’t know how much of this way of being I would trade in, given the chance. Did I need to part with any of it? Probably not. What I needed was enough mindfulness to step aside from my cascading thoughts, wait for them to quieten, and allow myself the dedicated time to get organised, to recognise how it might be unsexy, but more importantly, a gateway to inner peace. To invest in some fit-for-purpose storage instead of rushing into whatever I could get for free or cheap, near my house via Facebook Marketplace just to get the dull job out of the way.
When I took a breath and returned to the embarrassing illustration of the inside of my skull at the bottom of the garden, I began to see it for what it was: a chance for change. That sounds like a Conservative political campaign, but at 43, I was staring at what could be – if I took the opportunity – a clean slate. The walls were now ¾ green, bare, and everything was out in the open. The closet had been cleaned out. No raging deadlines featured in next week’s calendar, so I slowed down and thought about the task at hand. I even visited the IKEA website to see what storage solutions they had. Chuck Palahniuk and his creation, Tyler Durden, scorched into my brain, reminding me I am not my Swedish furniture, but if this Swedish furniture helped me to shelter from the superstorm of constant chatter in my head, then I could live with its banality. The furniture does not define me, or reflect any aspect of my personality, but it has a very practical role to play in steering me away from some kind of collapse into constant overwhelm.
Beautiful things happened too. As magazines, books and other items carrying my words and pictures from over the years appeared, I felt good, dangerously proud that I’d managed to work as an illustrator, writer and coach for this long. I wondered if I might give them a visible home, on show in the studio, where they might remind me of my capabilities on the days when doubt kicks the door in.
I found photographs I hadn’t seen for decades and other personal items that stirred something real, making me want to tell more stories about the human condition.
By the end of the decorating process, I wondered how a simple lick of green paint had mutated into an extended look in the mirror. I thought about what else I’d hidden away, even from myself, and felt a rising desire to stop running, to come out of my hiding place and learn that not everything is about actively creating.
On some level, we’re all hiding something from ourselves and masking it in the outside world. I suppose the question is, to what end, and how might it be shaping our creativity, creating flow or blocking it completely?