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As an artist, one of the sem­i­nal books of my career has been Julia Cameron’s ‘The Artist’s Way’. It’s like a Bible for many cre­ative types and is a best seller around the world.

I was first intro­duced to it by my paint­ing teacher at TAFE, after my first solo exhi­bi­tion almost sold out. He kindly copied the chap­ter on ‘Fame’ and gave it to me. The gist was how fame can mess with your head as an artist.

He didn’t mean it in a down­grad­ing way, but to help me push past fears of ‘What next? How can I fol­low that?’ Some­times suc­cess can bring just as much doubt and pres­sure as fail­ure. Some­times more.

Julia’s com­mon­sense approach helped me get back in front of a blank can­vas and keep working.

I’ve loved that book ever since and given it away as gifts more times than I can remem­ber. And for some­one who usu­ally makes hand­made gifts (to be thrifty + because I’ve always loved mak­ing things) it must be some­thing I see real value in. Con­se­quently, often when I look on the book­shelf I find it’s no longer in my pos­ses­sion. But the themes stay with me regardless.

The time­less lessons in Julia’s book trans­late to gar­den­ing too.

She says to turn up and do the work, with­out any attach­ment to the fin­ished prod­uct, reg­u­larly. By prac­tic­ing your art, you will nat­u­rally get bet­ter at it. If you turn up and write three pages of long­hand every morn­ing (an exer­cise called “Morn­ing Pages” which I’ve fol­lowed on and off for nine years), you’re nat­u­rally going to get bet­ter at writing.

If you sit down and paint for an cou­ple of hours, a few times a week, you’re going to improve.

It’s exactly the same with gardening.

Over the years, when peo­ple have asked what I do, I say “I’m an artist” Their response is “What do you paint?”, usu­ally fol­lowed by, “Oh, I don’t have any cre­ative tal­ent. I barely made it through art in grade 8.”

Now, when peo­ple ask what I do, I say I’m an artist and I teach peo­ple how to grow organic food.

We usu­ally go through the same as above, with a new twist. “I can’t grow any­thing to save myself. My plants always die. I’m sure I have a black thumb!”

Want to know the truth? I couldn’t always paint. My first efforts using oils were laugh­able; I ended up with blue paint on the tiles of my mum’s new home; smeared more blue paint all over my hands and fore­head; and the can­vas looked like some­thing I prob­a­bly could have done bet­ter when I was five years old. (I didn’t know how to get the oil paint off my hands either! Thus ensued a scene not unlike Dr Seuss’s ‘Cat in the Hat Comes Back’ spread­ing blue fign­er­prints far and wide).

For the next three years I sup­ported a very wounded ego and belief I couldn’t paint.

Finally I enrolled in a TAFE course, learnt some basic paint­ing tech­niques, and prac­ticed. And prac­ticed. And prac­ticed. But it was more like play­ing than practice.

Cre­ative play, with­out attach­ment to the final result, is where true learn­ing and mas­tery comes from.

Enter my strong health-driven need to learn how to grow organic food.

It was like start­ing from that first expe­ri­ence with oil paint again. I didn’t know the best way to do things. I didn’t know what mate­ri­als would help me get the results I wanted. I didn’t have much of a clue about processes or techniques.

So, I enrolled in courses, joined Per­ma­cul­ture groups and became a mem­ber of com­mu­nity gar­dens. I made friends with women who have been grow­ing food for decades.  They shared their knowl­edge and sto­ries with me and I lapped them up. Then I went home and tried them for myself.

You know what I think? A per­cent­age of my paint­ings don’t work out; that’s just part of the process. But when I’m ‘in the flow’ and turn­ing up reg­u­larly in my stu­dio, a higher per­cent­age do work. The more I play with paint (I don’t like to think of it as work because my lit­tle inner artist imme­di­ately starts resist­ing and pro­cras­ti­nat­ing), the more the paint­ings ‘work.’

I’ve noticed the same with gar­den­ing. A per­cent­age of my plants don’t make it. They may not like where I planted them, the weather may not suit them in their infant stages, or I may get too busy to nurse them ten­derly and thus leave them to fend for them­selves. So I plant more of what I want, I plant a diver­sity of plants, and I plant them in dif­fer­ent places. It’s nat­ural insur­ance against nature, and my own ded­i­cated (ie. ‘focused on one-thing’) per­son­al­ity. The result is I always have food in the garden.

You may have expe­ri­enced the same thing. You may plant some­thing and find it didn’t grow, then hold the (mis-guided) belief you can’t grow that par­tic­u­lar plant. Or, worse still, believe you can’t grow any­thing at all.

Yes you can. You can grow straw­ber­ries. You can grow zuc­chuni. You can grow herbs. You can grow pretty much any­thing that suits your climate.

To grow food, you just need to fol­low the same prin­ci­ples an artist fol­lows to cre­ate art:

1. Edu­ca­tion + Learning

Par­tic­i­pat­ing in courses, attend­ing work­shops, lis­ten­ing to speak­ers and going to gar­den expos such as the Nam­bour Gar­den Expo is a great way to broaden your expe­ri­ence and knowl­edge. I’m con­stantly learn­ing from my gar­den­ing friends and pick­ing up tips on how to get success.

My first ever online gar­den­ing course ‘The Abun­dant Veg­gie Patch Sys­tem’ is now in ses­sion and already stu­dents are mak­ing herb spi­rals and grow­ing new edi­ble plants in their back-yards. We’re hav­ing a ball learn­ing new skills and I’m lov­ing shar­ing my knowl­edge and experience.

You can never know all there is to know about gar­den­ing, but the joy of learn­ing and dis­cov­ery makes the jour­ney that much more reward­ing. Plus, you’ll find you can eat more from your gar­den as a result.

2. Com­mu­nity

When it doesn’t work out, ask ques­tions of peo­ple who’s work or gar­den you admire, learn from them, and try again.

Sur­round your­self with a com­mu­nity of like-minded peo­ple. Even if that com­mu­nity just starts with one other per­son. It can be the author of a book: such as Julia Cameron for cre­ative dis­cov­ery, or Jenny Allen for Per­ma­cul­ture gar­den­ing advice. And of course Sprout com­mu­nity on Face­book is at your finger-tips too!

3. Prac­tice

Don’t give up.

Remem­ber, true mas­tery comes from turn­ing up and actu­ally doing some­thing. Prefer­ably doing it play­fully & regularly.

Paint (or plant!) more than you need, so you can make up for the inevitable losses. And don’t take the ‘fail­ures’ per­son­ally. Put them in the exper­i­men­tal pile. And try again.

4. Inquis­i­tive­ness

Play. Be inquis­i­tive. ‘What will hap­pen if I plant this here?’ ‘What colour flow­ers will it have when it goes to seed?’ ‘What does it taste like?’ Let your­self delight in the sense of won­der and delight of a child learn­ing new things. There’s so much to be delighted and sur­prised by in your own back-yard garden.

Take Action Now

Go out in your gar­den and let go of your fears. Don’t worry what neigh­bours or your friends will think if it doesn’t work imme­di­ately. You’re in learn­ing mode. Think of your lit­tle 1.2 x 2m plot as your stu­dio, or your lab, and remem­ber exper­i­ments are tak­ing place. Take the pres­sure off your­self to make your gar­den per­fect. Lit­tle by lit­tle, by show­ing up and lov­ing the play­ful process, you will mas­ter your gar­den­ing art.

And the bonus? You’ll get to eat the result­ing pro­duce! It tastes a whole lot bet­ter than oil paint. (And I’ve eaten a bit of that…)

 

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- Nicola xoxo