Navigating Chaos: Embracing the Messy Life of an Artist

“When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I survived at all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood.

Nothing can compare with the Irish version: the poverty; the shiftless loquacious alcoholic father; the pious defeated mother moaning by the fire; pompous priests; bullying school masters; the English and the terrible things they did to us for eight hundred long years.”

Frank McCourt, 'Angela's Ashes'

Frank McCourt was in his mid-60s when he chose to document his childhood memories, leading to his first and most renowned book, ‘Angela’s Ashes’. While the book received critical acclaim, some critics questioned the accuracy of his bleak depiction of childhood, accusing him of excessive self-pity.

Like McCourt I too throughout my adult life, have pondered the impact of my own unhappy childhood. How did it influence the person I am today? To what extent could I hold others responsible? Was it simply an experience to endure, or did it ultimately have a more significant impact?

Author Frank McCourt Photo: New York Times

Without a doubt, this puzzle has both instinctively and consciously shaped many of the major and minor life decisions I've faced over time.

Recently, I believed that my childhood distress and erratic behaviors over the years were well concealed by my artist's persona. I liked to think I had confidently compartmentalised my emotions and long banished my ghosts.

Although I felt sure I had managed to bluff my way through life, I couldn't shake the sensation of being an imposter, a fraud.

That was the case until recently.

As you get to know me, you might see that I don't have many friends. Building relationships has always been difficult for me. However, I have come to greatly appreciate my small group of remaining friends nowadays.

It's often said that friends should be honest with you. Long-time friends are expected to be even more candid. After all, they are the ones you can count on to tell you the truth.

The author and classmates under the 'benevolent protection' of the Catholic Church (c1971) Photo: St Clare's Catholic Primary School, North Box Hill

The author's formative years were spent under the strict tutelage of the Christian Brothers at St Leo's CBC, Box Hill

My formative years were spent under the strict tutelage of the Christian Brothers at St Leo’s CBC, in the Melbourne suburb of Box Hill. And while this experience brought its highs and its now notorious and damaging lows, some of the boys did not survive through to adulthood. But the childhood friendships that endured to my mind bring with them a brutal openness that only seems normal as a result of those shared experiences

"Growing up, you were, well … messy," he remarked, barely suppressing his amusement. I placed my cutlery down and met his gaze. This was not the conversation I expected during our catch-up lunch. It had been over ten years since our last reunion, and surely there were more pleasant topics to explore. Brett and I had known each other for over forty years and shared few secrets, but some matters, I believed, were best left untouched.

But he was right. I was messy. Scattered. Undisciplined. Intolerant.

Should I seize this moment to apologise for the hurt I know I caused him as a self-centered, unkind teenager? Or had our enduring friendship over the years absolved the past wrongs?

I wanted to say something, anything - preferably witty. But I couldn't. I felt exposed. In that moment, I wasn't the sophisticated, worldly artist I aspired to be. It was as if a mirror had been held up to me.

Brett's words lingered with me for some time. Eventually, I chose to let them be. I wasn't going to justify or excuse my past behaviors I told myself. I suspected I could, but I opted instead to let them sit. Maybe I would eventually explain some things, if not everything. After all, I was just a kid back then.

For a while, I couldn't connect the dots in my mind to make sense of it all.

But my old friend had brought everything into sharper focus.

A greater realisation eventually struck me. I still lead a chaotic, undisciplined, messy life. That part of me remains - except when it comes to my art and the discipline it demands.

Not everything is lost, it appears. Both can coexist. But what does that imply?

Currently, my life is largely focused on my art, embracing the notion that an artist's existence should be dedicated to creativity and authenticity. However, I questioned whether this life must be so painful to truly feel and be creative.

Often, you meet artists who insist that a lifestyle filled with sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll is crucial to their identity as artists. Yet, at some point, you notice they aren't actually creating much art. They're living the artist's life without producing the work.

Indeed, artists leading their artistic lives may sometimes resort to alcohol or drugs to cope with pain, to ease things over. But so do people who aren't creating art. It's not as if only artists drink to cope.

The creative solitude of the art studio

We all possess our inner demons, often hidden in shame. Yet, these can guide us through life. Rather than allowing them to destroy us, we can channel them for positive outcomes, embracing both the joy and the pain of our human experience. However, an artist's duty goes beyond this.

Ingmar Bergman (1918 - 2007), a Swedish director, writer, and producer known for his 'messy life,' insightfully delves into this universal experience.

"It's the human condition: memories, emotion, being, pain, even the simple act of living and breathing. Everything at once—the human experience. We all encounter it, even those who don’t—or can’t—express it through art. But it is the artist's duty to engage with our feelings, to be receptive to them, to analyze them, and transform them into narrative, paint, or film."

Undoubtedly, this task can be daunting for artists. Bergman describes it as a 'flowing-over feeling,' of containing too much, holding too much, feeling too much. As artists, we must examine our experience until it becomes painful, excessive, overwhelming—too much humanity.

This painful existence breathes life into an artist's work.

"It oozes out of me like a broken tube of toothpaste; it doesn’t want to stay within the confines of my body," Bergman explains. "A strange feeling of weight and volume. Perhaps soul volume, which rises like clouds of smoke and envelops my body."

Ingmar Bergman Photo: The Independent

Bergman highlights the significance of solitude and the discipline it fosters, noting that "the artistic process unfolds during solitary hours, where the work happens, and you must channel that creative energy. You need to discipline yourself to complete it. This work only occurs in solitude."

For Bergman, solitude enhances artistic sensitivity, presenting challenges and sometimes causing discomfort.

"When you sit there, alone and working, you are forced to confront yourself. Your life, emotions, thoughts, and feelings are constantly reflected back at you. You cannot escape your emotions, memories, or the material you are working on. Artistic solitude is a choice to confront these feelings and sit with them for extended periods."

Ingmar Bergman Photo: New York Times

"It requires courage to do this. You confront your own pettiness and fears, encountering various unpleasant aspects of yourself. However, the experiences you've had in life become the art you create. There's no simple way to achieve this if you wish to make art."

Pursuing art and remaining faithful to one's creative vision is essential for finding order and clarity amidst surrounding chaos. In this pursuit, a happy childhood appears to offer minimal advantage.

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The author (2019)

Main Photo: The Author (2019

Andrew McIlroy is an Australian artist and writer