How to do your own creative residency
life after rejection | taking control of your creative life | going on an adventure
The beginning of the year was challenging creatively and emotionally. Perhaps they are the same thing. As writer Anne Lamott of writing-craft book Bird by Bird fame knows well, the months prior to book publication are turbulent and nauseating. Ill-equipped for life after writing, the pre-publication months leaves many authors feeling wrung-out and wretched. I have talked about that plenty already though, and I'm over it now.
But at the same time, I also had the gumption to apply for an Arts Council Grant, as well as submit a creative residency application. The latter was for a writing/movement project I had in mind and felt I was a great candidate for given my particular CV. Alas, both were rejected. The former was more of an technical oversight than anything, and the latter told me I was very close in a highly competitive field. But in the end, neither of these pieces of feedback were of much solace. A rejection is a rejection on the level of one’s nervous system.
I felt pretty grotty at the time, but also magnanimous from the off. Surprisingly so. A tell-tale sign perhaps. All told, I held myself pretty well through the immediate ensuing feelings of loss and despondency. I was able to recognise that I have had/am having plenty of opportunity and ‘success’, and that really I have no business complaining, or succeeding in these applications at the first time of asking. It would be good for me to go through this I said to myself and meant it.
But as more weeks passed and I considered reworking my applications, dragging my feet somewhat, unable to muster the enthusiasm for the Arts Council stipulations in particular with their newly minted partisan position, a fresh realisation arrived. And it landed with a specific set of words: the world isn’t looking for you.
I put down my pen.
At first, the words landed with a blow that threw me into an intense (but mercifully short-lived) existential and attachment crisis. Oh god, I am done. Where will I go from here? Is this the invisibility of middle life that we all hear about? Will I ever be loved and seen as I need to be? I sent a few voice notes to my friends at this point. As Winnicott said, it is a joy to be hidden and a disaster not to be found.
But then the words mellowed, or I did, and I realistically engaged with an essential set of truths: I am older now. I am not starting out. I am not the future generation. I am part of the global majority. I am not under-represented. The world isn’t looking for me, and this is as it should be.
And also this: it definitely doesn’t mean I am irrelevant, and it doesn’t mean I don’t have a right to express myself and share my work. It doesn’t mean there won’t be people – hopefully many, many more – who will want to engage with my work for years to come. It doesn't mean there won't be collaborations. It just means that I am not the right recipient for scarce public funding (the sector is in a terrible state). I am not the right person to work with young people (this is the understandable thrust of much funding priority). I am not in need of this particular opportunity (I have had plenty, and as a result I can support myself). I have already been found.
I wanted a residency in particular not for the funding, but because I felt it was a route to legitimacy. As if two books published by the Big Five publishers was not enough. Or a rich portfolio of other published work. Or professional qualifications. Or a long history of practice and experience. No, I wanted The Arts World to say I matter too. I wanted to secure yet more love as protection against the unthinkable terror of just being little old me in a big wide world. I wanted their seal of approval to do work that I was always going to do for myself either way, but I was also conflating an offer with a sign of my personal worth; as a person good enough. I wanted to be able to *say* I was awarded a residency. Writing that I feel a little ashamed of myself.
My trip to Estonia was booked in the eye of this storm. I knew I wanted to go back for some peace and quiet, and I knew that I wanted to go back to research some ideas for my next book. What I didn’t realise until I was there was that I had instinctively crafted my own creative residency. Sure, I knew I was going to work on my projects, I knew I had selected some beautiful places to stay as a treat, I knew I was going to spend most of it roaming and retreating within myself, dwelling in my fascinations. But only when I was there did I really see what I was replicating with my own resource. The world isn’t looking for me - I realised as I stepped off the plane – GOOD! Thank god for that!
This sudden reframing of the temporal nest I had built (sanctuary, I was calling it) as not just holiday but self-supported residency, was a turning point that will have a lasting impact on this next stage of my life post book two as I tussle and grapple with what's next; with what I want next. Me, not what others want from me (I talked in a recent post about my sensitivity to being consumed).
I saw myself very clearly on this trip away, which was in some ways the whole point of it. But what I saw, wasn’t entirely what I expected. I thought I would find that old friend, albeit tighter-skinned and only marginally weird, and fall into loving step with her once more. I really like me (or the me of my imagination) when left by myself. I’m not ashamed to say that.
But what I saw was a strange middle-aged creature scuttling around with a bag of seal bones and a singing bowl, photographing rocks, living off nuts and fruit, and babbling to arctic terns. I saw myself oar in hand, thrashing through mosquitos to convene with a giant rodent. I saw myself loitering in art galleries, dishevelled, and snapping at the paintings proverbially shoved in a corner. An eccentric but strong animal with a keen eye looked back as I stood hands on hips looking into Baltic waters at tiny fish, snapping seaweed clumps as they floated somewhat nonchalant on the currents. I rather liked her in fact, and we spent a beautiful, tender week together having adventures genuine and idiosyncratic, but even I could see that this is not who the world is looking for if by ‘World’ we mean The Institutions, The Status Quo, the notoriously conservative mainstream funders.
And you know what, it felt OK. If I’m really honest, it felt liberating. Because nothing has actually changed. Because I have never belonged or thrived there. I have always thrived at the edge of the village. I know my people.
Sitting in a bog pool, becoming somewhat geological under an unbroken sapphire sky, I reckoned with my self-doubt and surfaced with a feeling of admiration for all that I have crafted from my life so far. I have never once given up on me. I have pushed, yielded, pushed, yielded in cycles. That I was here under my own steam and resource, able to pay my own way creatively and support this intuitive way of moving through the world because of the work I have done and been supported in, was something to be grateful for, and pleased with. Go me! This wasn't failing.
I couldn’t have done this in my twenties, or for a lot of my thirties. I needed the funding and legitimacy then. But I can do it my own way now. And if I can, isn’t it right that the onus be on me to keep carrying myself in the direction I want to travel? This is the closest thing to freedom I can imagine in a world so full of pressure and constraint. I make my work for the wildness still immanent in the world, and within myself. My stakeholders are few but meaningful, and those who come along with me are cherished.
In Tallinn’s National Art Museum, before I set off on my erratic pilgrimage, I alighted on a painting titled Linda Carrying A Stone by Oskar Kallis. I included it in my last post as well as here because it lives so brightly in my mind now. The wife of mythic hero Kalev in Estonia’s national epic Kalevipoeg, she drops the stone in grief of his death and creates the lake in which the stone – Lindakivi - now sits.
In its colourful strokes and in her solid body, in her mission with that rock tied oddly in a bow, I see myself. I assume the sun to be setting into an afternoon position. I assume it to be autumn. Things are quickening, loosening, I recognise. But, we don’t live just one cycle, one rising. I have published both my books after turning 38. I have a lot more in me. Perhaps even more ahead than behind. Linda is engaged in her task. She has things to be getting on with. I do too.
Ten tips for creating your own creative residency (and travelling solo!)
Be brave and go alone. This is great for so many reasons not least because this is about you and your creativity, not the needs and obligations of others. The ethic here is you do you.
Cultivate a way of thinking that supports this choice – it is not selfish, or indulgent, for example. I don’t get these gremlins even for a second, but I know that others do. Notice who benefits from you thinking this way.
Choose somewhere that you are drawn to ‘beyond the frame’ by which I mean choose somewhere that calls to you. Move with the mystery as it stirs within you. This could be near or far, mainly though it needs to respond to soul and not ego. You will know the difference.
Save up the money to go on a trip that you can afford, where you are neither going to panic over its cost while you’re away and thus destroy the creative flow as it moves around you, or diddle yourself out of a wonderful experience. Creativity dies with money worries. There is a sweet spot here that is a good lesson for life.
You’ll be going solo and managing those separate logistical challenges accordingly so do whatever you need to do to make it easy for yourself. Take a blanky if you need to. Fear is the opposite of creativity. I am a confident driver and love hiring a car, so this is a priority. I also pin supermarket locations on google maps because seeking food stresses me out. Remember, you do you.
Stay in beautiful, quiet places. Never underestimate the importance of a nature vignette framed by a stunning window. Good windows are essential for any trip I ever make. You want places to rest and sleep that feed your inspiration, and are not just places to bunk down and get away from as soon as possible. Of my 6 nights in Estonia I invested in 3 that were truly special. The others were more practical. This balance worked and meant I didn’t take my three special nights for granted.
Before you leave consider the projects and ideas you might want to spend time with. You don’t need to be rigid, but it will help you focus your attention on the work that matters, however esoteric, quirky or weird. Now is the time to be Peak You. But leave plenty of room for what emerges too. I had some very loose objectives which I stuck too and this left me feeling empowered, but not harassed by the need to be productive.
Bear in mind that adventuring alone (whatever adventure means to you) often means doing things more quickly than you might otherwise. This is true for me at least. I always expect to do more langouring at a slower pace, but on the contrary I always find I need less time in one place to feel full, and so have more time than I expect to do other things. Hooray. If you are going to be a little bit ambitious with something make it your creative alone time.
Commit to creating while you’re there whether it’s nature journalling, writing a diary to capture all the details, taking plenty of photos, saving voice notes in the moment etc. This is invaluable for when you return, but don’t be anxious about it. Much of what lands will come after the trip/residency. When your residency is also a bigger adventure as it was for me, just ‘being in it’ takes a lot of headspace. There is no autopilot as there might be booking, for example, a familiar go-to holiday home in a local favourite haunt. I find the novelty very valuable, but also absorbing in its own right and that’s where my inspiration comes from. It’s hard to be present and reflective in the same moment.
Don’t spend all the precious time escaping into other worlds or distracting yourself from yourself. That means, be boundaried with social media. Be brave enough not to fill your head with noise from headphones. Don’t pine for home when it will come back soon enough. Listen to wherever you are. Be courageous in exploring what doubts and fears and excitements and urges arise. Being on the edge generates good stuff.
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My Books:
Weathering (2024, Ebury/Penguin) - available in Hardback, Audiobook & Kindle
Grounded (2021, Welbeck/Hachette) - available in Hardback & Audiobook coming in June 2024
Oh Ruth, the woman you saw made me BEAM! Nothing more perfect than seal bones and a singing bowl 😅 I see that and I see you. Thank you for the work you do, you see US and that work matters, beyond any arts council funding. I am so grateful for your words, I understand and feel them and don’t feel alone when I read them. I love a solo trip but now definitely want to frame it as a creative residency. My trips are usually to the coast but maybe I’m due a forest one in a beautiful cabin with the window framing the trees. And this; “It’s hard to be present and reflective in the same moment.” YES, so much yes. Cannot wait for book 3 😉
I am in the first stages of planning my own creative campervan trip and reading this piece I feel inspired to call it what it actually is: an artists residency. I will embrace the lonesome and frequently odd (though it never feels so in the moment independent of worrying about how I’m being perceived) in me whilst exploring and creating. Thank you for sharing Ruth!