Silver Lining Sketchbooks - the positives of painting with pneumonia

It’s difficult to articulate the extreme fear (justified and unjustified) I felt during the painfully slow divorce process and subsequent health issues. Even so, there was little evidence of this in my sketchbooks, which continued to be my refuge and safe haven during this ongoing crisis.

Once my ex moved out, I was given one month’s grace from the mortgage repayments looming over me. I had a small but steady income from stock illustrations and erratic freelance work, but I had no idea how long these sources of income would last. I was beset with persistent financial burdens, which triggered a very heightened fight or flight response, eventually taking its toll on my health. Some days I was shaky and tearful; some days it seemed my heart was pounding uncontrollably through excess anxiety. Generally I was exhausted and felt at the mercy of events, barely able to keep my head above water. I was the sole provider of financial security for my children, and I felt overwhelmed by the weight of this responsibility. Day in, day out, I was on ‘high alert’ and feeling, at one end of the scale, anger, and at the other, low self-worth.

Towards the end of 2015, I developed a cough and cold that I was unable to shift, because I never gave myself permission to rest. I was still able to fulfil my requirements for my then-agent, building collections around Christmas themes and pretty florals in order to build my portfolio for the Surtex licensing show in May, 2016. I felt that if I didn’t keep my foot on the pedal, constantly churning out art to attract more clients, my financial situation could be critical. I now see I was trying desperately to control outcomes based on a fear mindset.

Quite soon after the new year of 2016, there was a sharp decline in my health, which I can now see affected the style and the mediums I started using. My Instagram posts of this time only allude to having a ‘stinking cold’. By early January, 2016, I felt so awful I decided to seek the help of my GP, who ordered an immediate x-ray. It confirmed her suspicions: I had pneumonia, with fluid in both my lungs. She recommended immediate and extended bed rest for at least a fortnight if not more. Unfortunately, I ignored her advice because I was utterly fixated on preparing for the Surtex show and the financial rewards I thought it would bring. This just exacerbated my illness and slowed my recovery.

I carried on with my sketchbook practice as a way to escape all the different strands and levels of trauma I was experiencing. I found a way to paint within my limits. Typical sketches from this period were basic watercolours with line work applied afterwards, as most of these examples show. The truth of the matter was that I simply could not stay lucid for long enough to concentrate for more than 10 minutes at a time. I would paint quickly, go and have a rest, and then come back again several hours later with some quick pen work. I was only able to complete a page when I had a few moments of clarity and strength.

My two sketchbooks from that time are a reflection of my decreased energy, even though at the time I saw each page as a respite from my laboured breathing and general unease with the situation I found myself in. The flip side of my illness was that I had to summon my inventiveness and problem solving whilst I recuperated. Within the boundaries of my sketchbook, I could still be a creative version of me despite the medication. It may have been partly because I had committed to my first 365 days of paint, which gave me a huge incentive to carry on. It meant I had to be resourceful, imaginative and ingenious in how I could spend my very limited time.

Although I was very slow to recover from the pneumonia, by mid-March, 2016, I generally felt much better. Looking back, it occurs to me that those little black books had fast become part of my ‘safe room,’ which I protected at all costs. I could control what happened within them more than what was happening elsewhere in my life. They anchored me and stopped me from falling into helplessness. I wasn’t creating from a fear or lack mentality within the black covers of those moleskines. They were undeniably my sanctuary, where I felt almost immune to external forces. 

Silver Linings Sketchbooks - Painting with my Daughter #fiveyearoldpaints

My daughter had just turned five when she started witnessing my sketchbook practice. During the spring of 2015, just as I started painting one afternoon, she unexpectedly asked to borrow one of my waterbrushes and a sheet of paper and proceeded to sketch a very pretty imaginary flower. By the summer she had convinced me to buy her a little watercolour moleskine and her own paints and brushes. Some of the most enduring memories of keeping sketchbooks over the last four years were the days my daughter and I would paint side by side. (I’ll refer to her here as M.)

Often I would save my sketch practice till my daughter was home from school. M would assess whether she found the subject I picked up that day interesting enough for her. The fruit and flowers were more appealing to her than the packaging or book covers that I sometimes chose. If she decided to join me, M would go gather her own watercolour supplies from her special drawer, and we’d paint together in matching moleskines. At the time we had a circular coffee table in our living room, which we placed in front of our open patio doors on sunny days. M had a little wooden chair that she could sit on, while I would be cross-legged on the carpet. I gave her very little instruction—she just went ahead and drew her outlines, then painted how she wanted. Sometimes she’d ask how to mix a particular colour, but most often we’d just work with companionable chatter, catching up with her day’s events at school.

What I love about these pieces is her candid and impartial approach. Being five years of age, she didn’t seem too concerned how her page turned out. There was no overthinking or overworking (which I was apt to do). She seemed to have a remarkable ability to simplify the object down so it was still recognisable, yet retain a freshness that some of my sketches lacked. It was interesting to see her carefree attitude. I learnt many lessons about loosening up my sketches and making decisions quickly rather than laboriously. She was not constrained by proportions, shading, or mixing exact shades. Being unhindered, at least in my eyes, M was able to paint from a place of pure joy that was delightful to see.

Almost immediately in the period after I asked for a divorce, M took the lead in deciding what we would paint. There followed a period when we embraced a very geometric route. Straight lines were and still are out of my comfort zone, but I was quite willing to show support for her ideas. M was in her element, and she seemed to enjoy the simple forms as seen previously in her flowers and fruit. However you can see the hesitancy and doubt in my sketches from this period. Sometimes they only covered half a page and were incredibly tight. I was still learning from my daughter, who seemed so at ease and instinctive with this outlook.

M’s father frowned upon our joint watercolour practice. We viewed the time I spent painting with our daughter from completely opposing viewpoints. I was supremely proud and impressed by her sketches, and I wanted to share her glorious little pieces. I felt it made M very content to see her work next to mine on the IG grid, knowing that her page was of the same value and interest for anyone viewing. I even made up a personal hashtag for her sketches: #fiveyearoldpaints  However, her father felt that posting our daughter’s art on Instagram was contemptible and a cheap ploy to attract more ‘likes’ (I had about 3000 followers at the time). Although he became increasingly vocal about his feelings, we carried on regardless. 

During this time I avoided being in the same room as my ex and had taken to sleeping on cushions on the floor of the office. He was very slow in making arrangements for finding alternative accommodation, which frustrated me. Telling both my children about the divorce was actually much easier in many ways than expected. Both seemed to instinctively know why their parents had to part ways.

Those simple and honest afternoons spent with our sketchbooks in the sun will stay with me forever. At a time when I knew my marriage was floundering, it was a truly bright spot and often the highlight of my day. The simple act we shared transcended all the lousy feelings that were flying around in other parts of my life at the time. Even looking at the sketches now, I am filled with tenderness for her and her capabilities. M’s three sketchbooks are kept in the same special drawer as my other smaller moleskins because they are so valuable to me. Memories from these experiences with my daughter, as fleeting as they were, delivered lasting happiness during that excruciating period. 

Silver Linings Sketchbook in France

I have had to dig really deep in order to explore the events that primarily took place whilst I was completing sketchbook no. 2. It was not easy to give myself permission to do this, as I’ve had to extract myself from behind a curtain of shame that surrounds the breakdown of my marriage in 2015.

The typical subject matter I’d been sketching at this point was items I had easy access to, including book covers, packaging or just seasonal flowers and fruit. I had a natural curiosity that outweighed any thoughts of trying to capture the object perfectly. My sketchbook was neutral territory, where my inner dialogue was much quieter compared to the rest of my creative business. I could hear my answer when I asked myself ‘what can I learn from this?’ For me, imperfect sketches could still be useful or important. It was encouraging for me to work this way, as each sketch brought about fresh awareness and the opportunity to absorb watercolour outcomes.

In the spring of 2015, I had consented to attend a few sessions of marriage counselling to appease my then-husband. The counsellor hoped that a prearranged family holiday could help resolve our differences. That August we made the long journey to Southern France by rail. After an overnight stop in Marseille, we arrived at our base just outside the small coastal town of Cassis. The day after we arrived, on a very hot trek to Calanque de Port Pin I realised my marriage was irreparable. After a ridiculous argument over apricots and drinking water I could hear all the metaphorical pennies dropping, drowning out the noise of my young children happily paddling. When we arrived at the stunning calanque with its rocky sides and extraordinary blue sea, I sat in a much-needed shady spot to paint whilst my daughter napped. That evening, without much fanfare or too much introspection, I asked for a separation. 

We did not tell the kids about this significant development and pretty much carried on with our holiday as planned. In the sketchbook pages that follow I carried on as usual, too, with my routine of sketching whatever I had close at hand or what I saw around me; the harbour with its bobbing fishing boats or the view from our balcony where we ate.

I posted on IG sketches of local flowers including the endless oleander. And later on, views of Avignon, the Roman amphitheatre at Orange, and the nearby Pont Du Gard. These sketches are quite emotive souvenirs of that complex time. This sketchbook also displays my gratitude for the beautiful surroundings I saw around me, the silver linings in an otherwise poignant chapter.  

Even when I returned home, there were comforting household items, seasonal fruit and flowers that gave me something to focus on. When I focused, a soothing energy flowed over me as I painted. I only felt relief and release when I opened my sketchbook. Continuing within my sketchbooks as if everything were normal helped me through the intense isolation I was beginning to feel. I tolerated his presence in the family home for the sake of my children, who were still unaware of their parents estrangement. I worked hard at holding it together, and not saying as I felt in front of them, as the arguments accelerated.

Towards the beginning of sketchbook no. 3, I suddenly stopped using the pen line that I’d adopted early on. One evening, I was in a rush to attend a dinner party and with the light fading I wanted to capture these poppy heads quickly. I also felt the pen line had become a ‘crutch’ of sorts—it had only been there to support the watercolours, while I found my confidence with the medium. 

It is perhaps ironic as well as symbolic that just two pages later, I painted a little propellor aeroplane darting amongst whimsical and geometric clouds. I asked for a full divorce that day. The words came out of the blue, and I caught myself off guard with my certainty as I delivered my firm demand. In that moment I did not think about my children or my lack of finances, or having no apparent plan. I just knew I would suffocate and never fulfill my dreams or potential if I stayed married. I asked him to move out immediately, which he was reluctant to do.

When I look back on the page, it occurs to me that I was now learning to paint ‘freestyle.’ These clouds were purely from my imagination. Maybe that little aeroplane dodging the clouds was off on an unknown adventure, trying to break free from the confines of the page and sketchbook. I was finally allowing myself to explore with a more free and fluid approach, less grounded in reality. Although I was still suppressing many of my thoughts and feelings in my daily life, this page shows that within that small sketchbook I was making a safe space to express myself. I honoured this peace within the pain, and from this awareness I could see choices. 

My Silver Lining Sketchbooks - overview

To the casual observer they just look like little unassuming black books. Most of them live in a drawer under my desk. There’s nothing especially astonishing about the 18 pocket moleskines when they’re stacked up. However, within them lies a private narrative I haven’t felt able to discuss before.

I think now it’s time to share a more honest, as-yet-unexpressed history about my watercolour practice. It’s been something I’ve wanted to do for two years—to give a fuller picture of what was really happening behind the clean, polished work I've been sharing daily on Instagram.

If you go back far enough in this blog or on my Instagram, you’ll see my tentative attempts in sketchbook no. 1 way back in 2015. I taught myself watercolours in the subsequent sketchbooks, learning from doing, learning from observing, learning from overworking, and learning from proportions that were way off. These posts I’ll be sharing will NOT be about how to keep sketchbooks or watercolour technique. They will be the much more personal story of WHY I accumulated so many sketchbooks. At the height of my sketchbook practice, during challenges like #100dayproject and #365daysofpaint, I was averaging a new sketchbook every 8 weeks.

Most days I did paint daily. Wherever I was and whatever I was feeling, I’d sit down with my pans and complete another page, then it post on Instagram with a brief explanation as to why I chose that object on that particular day, and I was fine with giving out that level of information.

In retrospect 4.5 years later, I have been able to connect the dots about their purpose in my life, especially during those early days. In truth, I started my first sketchbook out of unhappiness.When my son was 1 year old I decided to take a total break from illustration so I could spend time just being a mother. This break was to last 8 years and included having another child. I call them ‘my wilderness years’ as I was a stay at home mum juggling school runs, laundry and amusing a toddler with little creative activity.  In late 2013, I started taking online courses after that huge gap to bridge the gap in my skills. Although my then-husband was the main breadwinner, we were leading a precarious existence, being financially challenged most months.I used to buy and sell items on eBay, create home made curry kits at fairs to stretch our meager earnings. Often we drove our car despite the red ‘fill petrol’ flashing sign, and prayed there would just be enough. This scarcity was quite a problem when deciding which bill could be delayed for a month loner.

Even from these early stages, I knew that in order to create a viable income swiftly I’d be running an art business. Bearing in mind my Photoshop, Illustrator, and drawing skills were pretty rusty after 8 years, I threw myself into updating my skills and improving my technique. Most days that was quite traumatic. I felt like a dinosaur, plodding along coming to terms with new technology and online platforms (and working on an archaic Mac).  Everything I did was very much digital illustration-based—as long as I could create it quickly, I thought that was the key. Those days, I shared a table with my husband in our spare room, and often it seemed I was literally chained to that spot whenever I wasn’t looking after the kids or cooking or cleaning. 

I rarely bought anything for myself. Even art supplies had to be kept to a minimum. It was wild extravagance that I bought myself a secondhand Daler Rowney watercolour pan set in the spring of 2015 for my birthday. I also bought a Moleskine sketchbook, similar to the simple black notebooks I knew were favoured by Van Gogh, Matisse, and Picasso. The added bonus was it was very small, measuring just 13 x 21 cm. Never having painted in watercolours, I wanted to make it ‘easy’ for myself. However, that first sketchbook sat on a shelf in its protective plastic for may weeks.

Once I did start, I realised that keeping a sketchbook meant I could physically remove myself from the office for 20 or 30 minutes everyday and fully be in my own space away from any dramas. At that stage, my ex and I were in general panic mode trying to find money, and he didn’t appreciate me taking those 30 minutes out of my day when I ‘should’ have been working on my website or other things to establish my illustration career. I had become this frenzied woman who was was churning out art, learning about technical repeats and chasing that art licensing dream. I knew something didn’t sit right, something was absent from my constant digital illustration process. I felt like I had lost the connection between my hands and my art and my heart.

I would look forward to sitting down in my kitchen in the early afternoon. It was the brightest room in the house, whatever the time of year. I called it my cocoon room—even though it was unheated, I felt warm and safe there. There would be no kids, no interruptions, no expectations or duties. In its simplest form, it was just me, that clean page, and a box of colours. I painted whatever I’d found growing walking back from the school run, or something from inside my cupboards, or curiosities I had collected that were displayed around the house. Those ornaments, teacups, books, tins of fish all nestled in this warm and protective environment where I didn’t have to pretend to be anything but myself. 

By working in silence, concentrating on the task at hand on those tiny pages, I felt no judgment or quarrel. It felt like I had access to a purer part of me, because I was unburdened by the weight of many problems. It didn’t seem logical to my ex, who felt my sketchbook time was an inappropriate or ‘profitable’ use of my resources, because it wasn’t a directly revenue-generating activity.

Yet without realising it, I had begun an investment in my future on many, many levels. It’s quite ironic that this solitary pastime I carved out for myself, at the time separated from my illustration business, would eventually become a great asset. Sketchbooks nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and beyond would be among the resources that I clung to as I faced massive upheavals and challenges. I could not have guessed that this safe, quiet place I cultivated with my sketchbooks would literally save my sanity in the coming months and years.

Little did I know, they were to become the foundation for some big, much-needed changes.