There is a specific stereotype of creative genius: that of the youthful prodigy with unstoppable talent. Unlike a surgeon or a politician, the artist is not expected to gain years of knowledge and experience before taking on his role. You could say that you don’t become an artist, you are born.
Yet history provides numerous counterexamples. French Post-Impressionist Henri Rousseau worked as a toll and tax collector until he picked up a paintbrush at the age of forty. Alfred Wallis, a West Country fisherman, began painting and drawing in his 70s. After his wife’s death, he began taking his photographs of coastal and sea life, usually on pieces of cardboard, “for company,” he once said. American folk artist Grandma Moses, a housekeeper turned farmer, began producing her New England landscapes at the age of 76; her work became so popular that in December 1953, at the age of 93, she was featured on the cover of Time Magazine.
These late bloomers are often described as “naïve” or “outsider” artists, somewhat patronizing terms used to describe people without formal artistic training. But they are also recognized for the originality and virtuosity of their work, demonstrating that, at whatever stage, new beginnings are always possible.
Depending on one’s circumstances, there will obviously be different routes to starting over and achieving success – i.e. making money and gaining recognition – as an artist. London-based Libby Heaney, whose exhibition Heartbreak and Magic opens at Somerset House in February, tells me that art was her favorite subject at school. “But because I come from a very working-class background, my teachers and family advised me to instead study something they considered ‘more serious’ at university, namely theoretical physics with German,” she says. Heaney soon questioned her choice, but did not have the money to start over. She therefore decided to specialize in quantum physics, obtaining her PhD followed by five years of postdoctoral fellowships at the University of Oxford and the National University of Singapore. She continued to make art in her spare time, although she viewed it more as a personally enriching ‘hobby’ – like ‘yoga or going out’.
I come from a very working class background and my teachers and family advised me to study something more serious
Libby Heaney
As a quantum physicist, Heaney received prizes and published around twenty articles in international peer-reviewed journals. But during this time she also “gradually saved enough money to go back to college to study art.”
In 2015, in his early thirties, Heaney graduated with an MA in Arts and Science from Central Saint Martins in London. Two years later she had her first solo exhibition in a gallery in Aarhus, Denmark. In her artistic practice, Heaney now draws on tools and concepts from her scientific research. For example, she uses her own quantum computer code to modify and animate digital images of her watercolor paintings. So the years Heaney spent in academia while saving for art school were certainly not wasted.
But Heaney is reluctant to present her story as a template for success. “The ability of working-class people to take risks – whether that’s going to art school [where an aspiring artist crucially discovers peers and mentors and develops their credentials], or creating work that is less commercial – is very much reduced compared to people with existing financial support such as family wealth,” she says. “How feasible is it for other working-class people to take a detour into the arts to limit financial risks?”
Others choose a more spontaneous approach. Arjan de Nooy, living and working in The Hague, is a photographer and award-winning bookmaker; this year his photo book Photology was published. De Nooy studied chemistry and art history at university in the 1980s. He was already involved in photography, but eventually graduated with an MSc and then a PhD in chemistry. While working at a patent office, his interest in creating art grew. He was in his late thirties when he made the impulsive decision in 2004 to enroll in the photography course at the Royal Academy of Art in The Hague. “This was a decision made more out of curiosity than a conscious plan to become a professional artist. ” he tells me. “I was especially interested in meeting like-minded people, because I had little knowledge of the ‘art world’.”
De Nooy graduated in 2009. Like Heaney, he has found that his scientific training has enriched his approach to art making. “I always felt that there wasn’t much difference between the way I worked as an organic chemist and as a photographer,” he says. “I tend to combine existing information to obtain new information.” In his books and exhibitions he makes extensive use of ‘found photography’ – he has amassed an enormous collection of historical photographs – and collages.
Now, a decade and a half into his photographic career, De Nooy agrees with Heaney that a lack of financial resources is the biggest obstacle for most artists – and not just when it comes to money for university. “I know very few artists who can make a living solely from their own work,” he says. To boost your career, he says, you need a combination of skills and serendipity: meeting the right people at the right time, winning awards or receiving grants. “If you can write a thorough subsidy application, that is also an advantage,” he adds.
But sometimes the barriers are both psychological and practical. Creating creative work and showing it to the world is an intensely vulnerable experience. London-based artist Helen Downie makes work under the name Unskilled Worker – a reference to her lack of formal artistic training – and did not complete her first painting until adulthood at the age of 48. “I knew I was an artist as a child, but somehow I forgot along the way,” she says. At one point she considered enrolling at the University for the Creative Arts in Epsom, but decided against it. “My life became quite chaotic and it wasn’t until I was 48 that everything suddenly calmed down and there was room in my head to start.”
In 2013, at the suggestion of her son’s friend, Downie uploaded an image of the first painting she made as an adult – a portrait of a dark-haired woman, with big red lips and almond-shaped eyes – to Instagram. She then says, “Once I started, I couldn’t stop.” The number of followers grew and after two years her expressive, brightly colored portraits attracted the attention of the fashion and art world. She was hired by fashion photographer Nick Knight to create illustrations for his website. Since then, commissions have been received for the likes of Gucci and Vogue, as well as for exhibitions in art museums and galleries.
“There will always be many reasons not to start,” says Downie. “The conditions are not perfect: no space; no time; I left it too late. The basis of all this is fear.” But once you get started, she says it’s much easier to keep the creative momentum going. Another strategy is not to take yourself too seriously – otherwise the anxiety will return. ‘I cheat myself by not giving weight to what I do. I say to myself, ‘I’m just playing, I’m just playing.‘”
Related: Grayson Perry on art, cats – and the meaning of life: ‘If you don’t doubt yourself, you’re not trying hard enough’
It is striking that each of these artists already knew what they wanted to do in their youth. In order to turn things around in adulthood, they had to find a way to drop the adult act, either by going back to school or simply allowing themselves to play uninhibited. This might be good advice for all of us. Artist Grayson Perry, who invited everyone in the country to make art through his lockdown hit TV series Grayson’s Art Club, agrees. “The biggest barriers to being creative are the fear of getting it wrong and the inability to trust your intuition,” he tells me. “Just go for it and keep going – no one makes a masterpiece on the first try.”