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Last Notes

2026-10-26 03:09:17 GMT

Apparently, I've lost the plot
This week, someone wrote to tell me I’ve lost the plot.
She said she'd followed me for years, taken several of my courses, and learned a great deal. But my recent newsletter had apparently revealed something worrying: my world had become too small.
Her concern was that, in choosing more quiet, I was shutting out life. Great artists, she explained, engage with the world and express it in their work.
My first response was less philosophical than what follows (can you imagine thinking you know about a stranger's life based on what they share in newsletters?) but once I got past that I was grateful for the email because I realised there’s something in it for all of us.
See, there was one thing she’d noticed correctly: I have changed and I think how and why that happened is relevant to all of us.
I have been very fortunate to do work that I love and that work has been successful, resulting in a life that had become so big and so intense that I was finding it hard to hear my own creative voice. I spent too much time engaged with other people and with my business. Added to all my personal responsibilities and stresses, there was no room for me.
I’m someone who absorbs what’s happening around me. Put me in a city or a crowded social scene and I seem to take in all the ambient stress, all the emotions, all the energy. As a porous Pisces, I sometimes feel I don’t have a skin.
I loved living in New York. It’s a fabulous city but it also made me ill. I love visiting London, but after a few days I feel battered and bruised by all that energy, and I’m ready to come home. When I was younger, I thought this was something I ought to overcome. Now I understand that it’s just who I am.
So, I began to quieten my life and to be more careful about what I let in. I let go of some things. I gave up some responsibilities. I began to spend more time in nature.
Before long, I noticed some major changes. The peace and solitude helped me reconnect with my art and I became much more productive in the studio. More surprisingly, stepping away from formal teaching seems to have ignited a new passion for sharing what I know. For example, I’m now super-inspired to make YouTube videos and I’ve fallen back in love with writing this newsletter.
I'm not alone in discovering the value of a different way of living. In 1967, Agnes Martin left the New York art scene and settled in New Mexico in search of solitude and silence. Georgia O’Keeffe also made New Mexico her permanent home and began to make work inspired by the nature that surrounded her. Cy Twombly moved to Italy while New York was the major centre of the happening art world. Claude Monet retreated to Giverny where he created the garden that would become the subject of all his work.
But there was something else in that email that stayed with me. What exactly do we mean by “engaging with life”?
I find it hard to imagine a life more full than the one I’m living. Caring for someone who needs you. Carrying the emotional load. Holding a friend through something difficult. Watching someone you love die, and attending funerals that came far too soon. Forging new friendships with amazing women. Taking trips filled with art, food and laughter.
What are these things, if they aren’t life?
There’s a familiar hierarchy here, and I think many women will recognise it. We have spent centuries being told which parts of human experience deserve to be taken seriously. Our concerns are too domestic. Our lives are too ordinary. Our emotions are not important.
In art, this hierarchy had practical consequences. Well into the nineteenth century, women were excluded from the life-drawing classes they needed. To this day, at the highest echelons of the art world, paintings made by women sell for much less than those made by men.
So I’m wary when anyone defines “life” in a way that seems to leave out so much of the life women have always lived. The caring, the relationships, the private grief, and the everyday work of keeping other people going—there is nothing small about these experiences. An artist could spend a lifetime exploring them and still have more to say.
Which brings me to why I wanted to share this with you... Artists hear sweeping declarations all the time.
Serious art has to address politics. Artists need to belong to a ‘scene.’ You need to learn to draw properly before you paint. You should loosen up. You should tighten up.
And if you lack confidence, these judgments can stop you in your tracks. Before you know it, you’re questioning the very thing that made you want to create in the first place.
Now I’m certainly not suggesting we should reject every criticism. Sometimes useful feedback is uncomfortable. But there’s a difference between someone helping you make the work you want to make, and someone telling you that you ought to want something else.
So, if your soul craves quiet, make room for quiet. If you come alive among people, seek them out. If you’re fascinated by something that someone else considers trivial, follow that fascination and see where it takes you. It is just not true that there is one type of art that matters more than any other, or one type of artist who is doing it "right."
As an artist, your deepest obligation is to become more and more yourself. Your job is to learn what you care about, what you need, and what you have to say, and to find ways to express that fully, no matter what anyone else thinks.
That is how worthwhile art is made and it seems to me, it’s also how worthwhile lives are lived.
https://www.louisefletcherart.com/blog/apparently-ive-lost-the-plot
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2026-10-19 03:05:26 GMT

A horrible week. And then, a little hope
On Monday, I was looking forward to a great studio week. I had very few appointments or commitments - just a long stretch of 5 days to paint. Bliss!
On Monday, I started a painting based on a photograph of my brother and me in bumper cars. These cars were my brother's favourite thing, and I wanted the painting to carry a feeling of joy and energy. I decided that the starting point for that was the bright colours of the cars - both were slightly garish in the way things were in the 1970s.
I changed the colours a little, but kept that brightness. It made sense for the photograph, and it made sense for what I wanted to express.
As I began to add the colours, I wasn’t really enjoying the painting, but I didn't worry too much at that stage as I often find the early stages less enjoyable. I broke off on Monday evening, uninspired but aware that I had a whole week to put things right.
Then, on Tuesday, I woke up to find my 20 year-old cat had suffered a stroke. She was dragging one side of her body, trying to walk but falling over, and going around in confused circles. She was also crying in loud distress.
I knew I had no choice but to take her to the vet for the worst of all appointments.
It was sudden and heartbreaking. I’ve had her for a long time, and she was bound up with so many other memories, so losing her hit me much harder than I’d expected - for such a small cat, she left a very large hole in my home.
On Wednesday, I couldn’t do anything. I just couldn’t find the energy to care about my paintings or much else and I didn't even venture to the studio.
On Thursday I still felt low, so I went out for a walk and gave myself a talking to. It's so easy to slip out of a studio habit. There's always something easier to do - maybe I could clean out the fridge, or give the grass a final cut. Maybe I could just make cups of tea and watch Gilmore Girls on repeat. I know how easy it is to go that way, so I talked myself into going into the studio just to have a look and maybe tidy up a little bit. I even managed a few changes to the painting, although nothing that made a difference.
Friday, I got myself back into the studio at 9am sharp, although I still wasn't feeling excited (like I said, there was a lot wrapped up in that little cat).
I returned to the bumper car painting and kept trying things. I’d make a change, dislike it, then respond with another change. There was a lot of activity, but I still couldn’t find my way into the painting. I kept changing the colours of the cars as nothing felt quite right - maybe that red needs to be a little brighter. That doesn't look great - what if I muted the green?
By Friday afternoon, I had been through 7 or 8 layers and time was running out.
And finally, I had a thought. What if I gave up on the bright colours? What if I used the cooler, more muted palette I’d been enjoying in the other family paintings?
It sounds such an obvious thing to try. But I’d been so busy changing everything else that I hadn’t properly questioned this one decision. The colours had a reason to be there; they belonged to the cars; they were supposed to express joy. It was a reasonable idea, but somehow I had allowed an initial thought to become a hard and fast rule.So I changed them. I returned to the cooler, more muted palette that had been working on the other paintings in the series. Suddenly, things started to feel better. My decision on warm colours had led me astray, so I wondered if my decision to have a light background had done the same.
All of a sudden, I was in that excited state of mind - you know the one - you can't mix the paint fast enough. Once I added a deep green behind the figures, my painting began to click into place.
The composition I’d been struggling with became something I actually liked. I could see possibilities and I wanted to explore them. By the time I had to stop, I was excited to come back.
The painting is still at the very early stages, but something has opened up. I know where I am going and what my next steps are.
And I keep thinking about the hours I spent trying to make those early colour decisions work. I’d been willing to change all sorts of things, but the bright colours and light background had stayed because I could explain them.They made logical sense.
But I hadn't actually stopped to ask: “do they work in this painting?”
We can get ourselves into so much trouble that way. We choose something for a good reason, then carry on treating it as a requirement, long after our experience has begun to tell us otherwise.
Sometimes it’s a colour palette. Sometimes it’s the size we’ve decided to work at, the subject we’ve committed to, or an idea about what our work ought to look like. We keep adjusting everything around it, trying to solve the problem without touching the thing we’ve set in stone.
But we’re allowed to change that too. I still want to express joy with this painting but there's more than one way to do that. Bright colour was just a first idea that didn't really work. I’m curious now about what else might be possible.
It was a sad week, and I’m still a little sad. Finding a way forward with my painting doesn’t tidy all that up completely - but I am grateful to my work for helping me get back to a state of excitement and engagement with life.
It's always easier to stay still - there is no risk in sitting in a chair with the Gilmores for company. But there's also no reward beyond feeling a little numb for a while.
This week, I don't have a deep profound message other than this: we are so lucky to be creative beings. We are so blessed to have something that keeps our brains active and excited, even when other things are hard. I really do look at Muggles with genuine sympathy - how on earth do they cope?
And if you've been avoiding your art for some reason, I suppose I hope this email might be the nudge you need to get back to it. It doesn't always feel easy, but if you get over the hump, there is so much there for you.
https://www.louisefletcherart.com/blog/a-horrible-week-and-then-a-little-hope
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https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/6061ea50e8d1a9461785728d/a3fcba75-bdf4-46e0-b015-06918b6451ab/unnamed+%281%29.jpg?format=1000w
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#little #monday #maybe
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2026-10-16 03:31:28 GMT

I could have learned this years ago...
Recently, I decided to learn how YouTube works.
That might sound a bit odd given that I’ve been making videos for years. But it's one thing to make videos and another to truly understand what makes people want to watch them. I’d put a lot of time into the first without really studying the second.
So I started learning. All the information I needed was available for free. I watched, listened, took notes and began making changes to the way I put my videos together.
Almost immediately, my viewing numbers doubled. One video went viral, reaching ten times my usual viewing numbers within its first two weeks.
That got my attention!
Of course, I was delighted that more people were watching. But what really struck me was that I could have learned this years ago. I’d been putting in the effort all along. I just hadn’t understood some of the things that would help that would really make a difference.
It made me think there are cheat codes for almost everything these days. All of the knowledge about everything is available to us at the click of a button. We are the first humans who can say this.
By "cheat codes," I don’t mean ways to skip the work. I mean things you don’t know yet that could really help you - something someone else has already figured out, that you could learn if you decided to look.
For example, I’ve lost count of the people who’ve told me Instagram doesn’t work for them, that they can’t get any attention there. But when I ask whether they’ve tried trial reels, most don't even know what that is.
And I do understand. There’s always something new to learn, and keeping up can feel like a job in itself. We definitely can't do it all.
I could put the same attention into learning Instagram that I’ve been putting into YouTube, but I have to decide where I want to spend my time and I've decided I only have bandwidth for one thing.
The same applies in the studio. I’m fascinated by all sorts of things, but I can’t become a fantastic printmaker, an accomplished ceramicist, a brilliant painter and an exceptional draughtswoman all at once. Certainly not while doing everything else I want to do with my life.
I can explore them all and I can enjoy being a beginner, but if I want to get really good at something, I have to give it enough of my attention.
And once I’ve chosen, there’s so much available to help me.
When I think about how I’ve learned to paint, I’ve taken a few courses, but most of the learning has come from making things. Practising, trying, getting it wrong, trying again. Watching other artists work, reading about them, looking closely at their paintings. Going back into the studio and doing some more.
There hasn’t been one book with all the answers or one course that taught me everything. I’ve had to put the learning together for myself, following one question to the next.
Sometimes that means seeking help. Often it means closing the book or switching off the video because I need to get my hands dirty.
I'm saying all this because think we can forget how much is learnable. We say “I’m no good at drawing” or “I don’t understand social media” as though we’re describing something permanent about ourselves, rather than simply something we have chosen not to learn.
Just to be clear - I'm not saying you HAVE to learn anything. We’re allowed to decide we're just not interested. I’m sure there are things I could become reasonably good at that I have absolutely no desire to spend my days doing (framing my art for example). But I’d like that to be a choice, rather than a conclusion I’ve drawn about my abilities.
My YouTube experience has reminded me to question those conclusions. I am learning to notice where I’m working hard but not learning much. I'm starting to ask where there’s something I could understand better that would help me move forward.
And then I'm learning to choose. What matters enough to me to study it, practise it and keep going through the awkward bit? What matters to me enough that I'll watch educational videos or read books rather than slump in front of Netflix?
We definitely don’t have to learn everything and we couldn't even if we wanted to.
But what's the thing you keep wishing you could do?
Perhaps you could give yourself the chance to learn how.
https://www.louisefletcherart.com/blog/i-could-have-learned-this-years-ago
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