Maker for Life
I'm a designer & photographer, and have been making things since before I even knew what those were.
I've been making things for as long as I can remember, from inventing worlds with Lego bricks in my early years, to oil and watercolour paintings and 1:72-scale models in my pre-teens, to my earliest attempts at design and "desktop publishing" when I was 12-15 years old, which all led to properly discovering design & typography and starting to take on the occasional client when I was 16. I think I've always been drawn to problem-solving, which is at the core of Design as a practice, so I've always had a sense that my personality type was suited to identifying and solving whatever problem happened to be in front of me, and ‘making’ provided tools and processes which enabled me to do just that. Making for the sake of making comes from a different place, and it wasn't until I properly discovered photography in my early 30s (very late compared to most) that I felt I had found a way to express myself in that way. Even after more than 10 years of making images with a camera, I still feel like I'm only just starting to understand my relationship with the medium, from an artistic point of view.
Making anything seems to bring me joy, to some extent. It doesn't matter if the things I make see the light of day, in a public sense, only that I've seen them through to some level of completion. The pleasure is often derived from solving the problems required to get to each ‘next step’ during the process of making. Sometimes I really do enjoy the end result, but usually I'm more interested in whatever the next thing happens to be.
For example, making photographs brings me intense joy, and while I do love many of the resulting images, the moment of capture is my favourite. Design is somewhat different in that regard, as I enjoy the process but also the end result, in some cases at least. Physical objects — books, posters, cards, et al — bring me more joy than digital creations, regardless of whether the process was digital, analogue, or a mixture of both. Perhaps this has something to do with the permanence associated with physical artifacts, vs. the near-total lack of permanence with digital / virtual creations.
Ideas come when I'm at my most open, when I'm ready to receive them, though reaching that state is something I have yet to master on-demand. I'm constantly reflecting on this part of the creative process, but it seems to involve a mixture of input over time, boredom, rest, and a relaxed mental state to allow my subconscious to make the necessary connections. That, or a crazy-last-minute deadline, ha!
If responding to a brief for a client — whether design or photography — I start with a lot of questions. I keep asking until I feel I have a good understanding of their business or organization, and the "why" behind their stated goals for the project. What I'm trying to create is a foundation for my subconscious (and on larger projects, my team) to start connecting dots, so when I start researching I can focus on feeding information into the matrix without worrying about whether it makes sense immediately or directly relates to an eventual solution.
For personal work — including filmmaking, now that I'm a few years into planning and preproduction for my first documentary film — it can often be similar to all that, depending on the type of project. In all cases, I leave myself room to discover surprising connections along the way; to give myself room to breathe, creatively. The winding, meandering path to creative solutions often takes time, and the answers or beginnings of an idea may come from the most surprising sources of inspiration.
Sometimes it just takes showing up day after day in order to find the way through, while other times brute-force does nothing for the process. Learning to be better at anticipating which method is appropriate for a given project is a lifelong journey.
When I was younger, and especially for the first 5-10 years I was running my small agency/studio, the idea of “process" as a reproducible, follow-able plan was quite appealing, and to some degree, that is still part of my psyche. I think many creatives like to think there are a series of steps and environmental variables which, if only they can be controlled, will make “making” easier. This is of course true in many ways, though it can also be very personal, and for teams it also depends on the personalities and skill sets (and creative habits) of those on the team. In my own work, whether solo or with others, and regardless of medium, I find similarities from project to project but have learned to value flexibility and design for serendipity. Usually that means my process includes time for the unexpected, room for thinking — my grandfather used to say "Always remember to account for your thinking time.” He was a chartered surveyor, amateur boat designer, and all-around Smart Fellow, and experience has proven his words to me many times over.
On short projects (mostly photographic commissions but also certain quick turnaround consulting advising roles), I find it easy to stay focused and engaged, as there's no room for anything else. Full attention is required, usually in one session. This is also reminiscent of my music career in the a cappella world: the nature of the thing is such that there is no room for distraction, which is incredibly helpful for anyone who tends to take on many projects, interests, and passions at once. I love these projects as I can throw myself into them until completion without any context switching getting in the way.
On longer projects — mostly design-related, but sometimes photographic commissions requiring more planning and pre-production, teaching and training when creating new content or a curriculum, and of course filmmaking (as I'm learning these last few years) — staying engaged is more difficult the more concurrent projects are demanding my attention, and the longer the gaps are between working sessions. The biggest factor is my level of interest in the project and the people I'm working with (regardless of whether client or team members), and I've learned the long way that it is never worth compromising on those two aspects of the work. Knowing which projects to turn down — due to lack of deep interest, not vining with the client, or both — is now a vital part of my process when evaluating personal and professional work.
How do I know when to stop? This is another aspect of the process that often involves outside forces: for any projects with an external deadline (personal or commercial), the deadline controls all; for personal work that is self-initiated, self-imposed deadlines often slip, so I’ve moved to not having them at all, which helps avoid any negative thoughts of "missing" a deadline (which is pointless when you're in control of every aspect).
The other situation that sits between those two is when collaborating with one or more other creatives/artists/makers, which is where shared accountability (and deadlines, reasonable) helps keep everyone motivated and focused during the project, and provides a target for completion. In those cases I'm always clear that the deadlines ought not to cause stress or anxiety, as that can be detrimental to the teamwork (and fun).
Ultimately, this is hardest when working alone, so I tend to steer myself away from completely solo personal
When I do stop, and release my work into the wild, the feeling falls somewhere on the spectrum from "Relieved" to "Terrified" with "Nervous" being somewhere in the middle. Being able to accept a thing I've made as “good" is usually pretty easy, as I wouldn't release or publish anything otherwise. But then it shifts to "what will people think" or in the case of a design solution, "will it work as intended?" and occasionally "I could have / should have done better." I've come to accept those inner questions as a normal part of my process, and learned that most of the makers I admire — those I know personally as well as from afar, including historical figures — have similar doubts, and that as such, acceptance is the best way through those thoughts.
Thankfully, I'm proud of almost everything I've made, given enough time and distance to properly reflect on the work and where I was in my journey at the time. This continues to be a difficult thing to measure during and immediately after a project, with few exceptions, but I know I am not unique in this. Even those who are objectively great at their craft often doubt their work in the moments One of my favourite recent examples was shared by Roger Deakins, acclaimed cinematographer, on his podcast (Team Deakins), where he explained how he can’t watch one of his films for years® after making it, otherwise all he can see are the flaws in his work.
I have favourite images, each with their own context and reason for being a favourite, and the same is true for clips of motion work, or audio tracks, and of course digital, print, and other forms of design output, and writing... but I don’t think I could ever pick a single one above the rest. My favourite book is my only one to date, Koya Bound (co-created with my friend, Craig Mod), though soon I will have a second book in the wild to compete for that title. Both are already favourite projects as the collaborations were fun and fruitful.
Thinking specifically about my "own" work (as in, solo personal creations), picking a favourite becomes a little easier — and yet I'd still need to narrow the context: My favourite photo of 2019? Favourite version of my personal website? Favourite watercolour painting from my teens? Even writing those out makes me more confused about how I'd possibly choose between the options.
If I wasn’t doing what I do, I used to think I would become a Music Therapist, or an Aeronautical Engineer, so my first inclination ie to use one of those as my answer, However, those were my "practical" choices when I was 16 or so, and everything else I'd set my sights on until them had been related to making, in one shape or another. All the things I do revolve around making, from music to photography to art & illustration to filmmaking to product design — I can't imagine a life without creation, even as a teacher. The way I learn best is by doing, and doing is a form of making even when hiking, swimming, running, cycling, singing... I think I'd be a maker regardless of my vocation.
Dan Rubin, Maker for life.