Writing As A Companion To My Art Practice.
On Rediscovering Writing.
My desk sits tucked in the corner of our guest bedroom - usually set up for work-from-home days at my digital marketing job, but increasingly becoming the place where I study, reflect, and write. I don’t have a studio. I don’t even have a regular creative space. My art and thinking happen where they can: sometimes at that desk, sometimes on the kitchen floor, sometimes on the bus. And yet, through all of this transience, I’ve found one constant - a return to writing.
Since starting my MA Fine Art course and this blog, I’ve rediscovered writing as a quiet form of strength. I used to journal constantly when I was younger - pages and pages of thoughts, sketches, and observations about the world. As life shifted and I stepped into adulthood, that habit gradually disappeared. When I finished high school, I didn’t go to art school like I had thought I would do when I was younger. I started an apprenticeship at a digital marketing agency, which eventually led into a full-time role. I worked my way up. And in the process of growing, adapting, and figuring out who I was in the world, writing quietly slipped into the background.
The blog didn’t feel like an assignment when I began it, but I was hesitant. I’m a private person by nature - not particularly active on social media, not someone who typically shares their thoughts with the world. Publishing posts online felt like standing in a room and reading my diary aloud. But over time, the blog has become something different - something grounding and incredibly valuable. It’s allowed me to find my voice again, and with it, a sense of connection I didn’t realise I was missing.
Because I’m dyslexic, I tend to keep most of my notes electronically now - scattered between apps on my phone and various folders on my laptop. Occasionally, if I’m travelling, I’ll take a notebook, but even then, I sometimes find it frustrating. It slows me down. There’s something more immediate, more free-flowing, about typing. It lets the words come quickly, which is vital for me. Life moves fast, and I often don’t have the luxury to sit down and wait for inspiration to arrive. Writing allows me to catch fleeting ideas before they disappear - snippets, feelings, fragments of conversations. Later, those small pieces might grow into something more. Writing helps me collect those puzzle pieces.
I’ve come to see writing as deeply interwoven with my practice. It allows me to untangle thoughts, to reflect, and to step back and ask, "What is this really about?" When I’m painting, especially with ink, I find that words are still present, just not spoken aloud. They hum in the background. Sometimes, when I’m struggling with a piece, I’ll turn to writing instead. I’ll write about the feeling I’m trying to capture, about where the image came from. The process of doing that often reveals the missing piece or helps me move forward in a way I hadn’t expected.
There’s a clarity in writing that I don’t always find in speech. I often struggle to articulate my ideas in conversation, especially when I’m feeling overwhelmed. But writing gives me space. The words come more freely, more naturally. They feel truer somehow. It’s not about being eloquent - it’s about being real. That honesty has become an essential part of my practice.
Just last week, in our first class back this term, we were asked the question: Is writing valuable for artists? For me, the answer is an emphatic yes. Writing has always helped me make sense of the world around me, but now it also helps me make sense of my art. It connects the dots between ideas I might otherwise miss. It allows me to keep a record of what I’m thinking, even if I can’t act on it right away. That kind of writing isn’t about justifying my work or preparing a statement - it’s about curiosity and discovery. It’s about giving myself the space to ask questions I don’t yet have the answers to.
During the same class, our lecturer Jonathan shared an article by Debbie Meniru on speculative writing as art interpretation. I read it afterwards, and it really resonated with me - particularly the idea that traditional gallery captions can sometimes limit our connection to a piece of art. That tension between fact and feeling is something I’ve been thinking about a lot. I don’t want my writing - whether on this blog or elsewhere - to become a fixed explanation. I want it to remain open, responsive. I want it to hold the same ambiguity and emotion that I hope my paintings do. Meniru’s writing affirmed that possibility.
Now, writing feels like part of my rhythm. Not a polished task, not an assignment to submit, but a thread that runs through everything. It lets me reflect on who I am, where I’ve been, and where I might be going. Whether I’m writing a blog post, a note in my phone, or a draft for something more formal, it all feels connected to the act of creating. Writing gives me a place to listen to myself. And that - especially in a life that moves between different roles, labels, places, and moments of borrowed time - feels like a gift I’ll keep holding on to.
References.
Meniru, D. (n.d.) Speculative Writing as Art Interpretation. Available at: https://debbiemeniru.com/fried-yam-article/speculative-writing-as-art-interpretation (Accessed: 17 April 2025).
