Returning to the Studio — On Creative Inactivity, Risk, and the Alchemy of Materials
- peter corr
- Jan 4, 2023
- 3 min read
Updated: 5 days ago
Every creative individual experiences periods of inactivity — moments when progress seems sluggish and very little is accomplished. This is a natural part of the creative journey: a temporary block, a decrease in inspiration, or the mind and body's way of recharging and avoiding unnecessary overproduction.
Like a winter landscape of frozen fields, with all life above ground dormant — that is how I would describe my own periods of disengagement. Somewhere deep in the psyche, in that dreamy subterranean world, reserves of latent energy are quietly restored and renewed. The gestation period, however uncomfortable, is rarely wasted.
Taking Risks
Taking risks should be at the heart of what we do as artists. It is difficult to create something genuinely new without stepping into the unknown. Playing it safe may keep work acceptable and in line with established standards, but it is unlikely to spark surprise or excitement — for the artist or the viewer. Stepping out of one's comfort zone opens the door to both failure and discovery. The word failure itself derives from the Italian, originally meaning to break something apart — hardly a catastrophic idea. Sometimes it is necessary to break things open to see what is inside, and then put them back together in a new way.
Trying New Materials
There is much to be said for building skills and practical knowledge through discipline and repetition. But leaning too heavily on mastering a single medium can become an unintentional limitation. Trying out new materials pushes one to rethink approach, test motor skills, and observe the process more carefully. A new material may react with others in strange and unexpected ways — and that is precisely the point. It keeps complacency at bay.
Painting traditionally involves brushes, which offer excellent control and remarkable versatility. But this same versatility can sometimes hinder spontaneity, making it difficult for unexpected elements to emerge. In recent studio work, I have used oil paint, cold wax, bitumen, vinegar, acrylic, modelling paste, plaster, sodium bicarbonate, linseed oil, and a heat gun. These were applied with brayers, palette knives, sponges, and metal scrapers — experimenting with pouring, spattering, dripping, trailing, burning, scratching, and staining. Each technique revealed new possibilities and offered fresh perspectives on image-making.
Developing Skills and Embracing Chance
When depicting elements of the world in a painting, there are numerous approaches to consider. One can adhere to traditional techniques that emphasise working intentionally with line, tone, colour, and shape. Depth can be achieved through chiaroscuro; texture implied through surface pattern.
Once a range of technical skills has been developed, the work will naturally yield convincing results. But by concentrating solely on accuracy, one risks overlooking the magic that emerges from chance, from the interaction of different materials. Most paintings from the Renaissance to the mid-twentieth century depend on our readiness to suspend disbelief. But what if we allow the materials to take charge, compelling our recognition systems to interpret rather than confirm? That is when creativity comes fully into play — as we uncover connections and patterns. A mismatch, a glitch, a decoding error should be welcomed. It is what keeps us engaged, curious, and ready to explore, deconstruct, and rebuild. In this way, the viewer becomes an active participant in the work.
In the Fenlands: Bleak Midwinter
In medieval times, I might have been an alchemist. I have been busy reconstructing winter Fenland fields from the base materials of tar, plaster, and bicarbonate of soda, with a little help from the remnants of a tin of Magnolia satin sheen. I do not think it will extend my life, but I get completely lost in the process — which is perhaps the point.
Alchemy, in its original sense, was a medieval science and speculative philosophy aiming to achieve the transmutation of base metals into gold, the discovery of a universal cure for disease, and the means of indefinitely prolonging life. In its broader sense, it describes a power or process that changes or transforms something in ways that resist easy explanation. That second definition feels closer to what happens in the studio.
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