I have been thinking about what it means to be an expert. What is an expert anyway? How is it really defined? Subjectively, objectively? Both? Neither? Is there some sort of KPI template that I missed out on at the last “how to be human” meeting?
I don’t know.
I don’t know that I am expert at anything other than being me, and to be honest, the court, judge, jury, building (city?) is still out on that one too.
Although, I may be an expert at worrying. Fretting. Imagining the worst.
Possibly also an expert at daydreaming and imagining - thinking of things fantastical and beautiful, mundane and ethereal, empowering and grounding and not of this time and space (though it gives me clues to find a more terrestrial version).
I have practised both of these things since I could form my first thoughts, I am sure.
My brain does not stop, in constant overdrive, so there is a lot of room for all of these expansive internal conversations, and it has always been this way. I know that some of you know what I mean.
But perhaps my expertise is growing, at least, in creative shapeshifting.
Because this, too, is something that I am practising nearly every day. Intentionally and subconsciously. Devotional reverence and reciprocity.
As much as I love stories of werewolves and were beings, vampires and more, that is not the shapeshifting I am talking about. And though the movies make it look painful I would still like to have a go. Just once.
My shapeshifting is centred on my creativity, on the artwork I make that honours our wild kin. After all, shapeshifting is something that humans have been doing (or at the very least, talking about) since we developed imagination. It is a realisation of the animal in us, the connection that we have with our more than human kin, the recognition that we are not different, we are the same, we are a part of the world they live in, not apart from. Despite supremacy and power assertion and capitalism and industrialism and dare I say it, patriarchy. The understanding that we all draw from the same life well. That we are made of the very same stardust. And that they have the most beautiful capabilities that we can only imagine having, but that our wild hearts so desperately crave.
In deeply observing a wild being to draw or paint I intentionally, well, ingest them. I absorb, consume, devour them, hungry and curious and forever their student.
They are taken into my body through my eyes - physically in the form of light and energy making chemical responses in my visual cortex, which cannot but influence other organs. My skin will tingle, my mouth curve in a smile of wonder, and my heart beats a little faster, especially when they are a new-to-me being or their visage causes a surge of awe and delight.
All that means that I get to use my other senses to try and honour them, to bring their beauty to another format for someone else (or just myself) to see. A painting, a drawing, done with deep reciprocity and respect and reverence, an unwavering compassion for them, and for my process, and for myself.
As I sculpt their wings in pigment, they also unfurl from my back. I roll my shoulders and shake them out, my eyes closed, but I hear the white and ochre and shadowy blue feathers rustle, feel the shadow they cast on my skin when expanded, feel them close and warm against my back when in relaxed embrace.
As I turn the paintbrush to capture a dab of reflected sun, antlers grow from my crown. My neck strong and able to hold them aloft with pride and grace. I turn my head side to side, and then chest to chin I raise them high, I can feel their weight, I can see them in my periphery, and they make me want to bellow with a self assured resilience and power. I am carrying the likeness of trees with me, forever a part of the forest.
As I layer and layer and layer paint to create the depth of thick fur, my own legs become covered as well. My nails turn to claws, my feet large and strong and padded to be soft and swift. My thighs want to run, to leap, to play, my tail sits high with joy, and I can feel snow kissed breezes caress its beautiful bushiness.
Honouring wildlife is a full body experience.
It is emotional, physical, and intellectual. It is humbling and awe-inspiring, and addictive. It is hard, and it is easy, and it is what I am here to do. To make connections, and to share connections, and sing the song of the wild in pigment in any way that I can. And through this gift of deeply empathetic shapeshifting, of really seeing each individual I honour, of acknowledging their individual personhood and their people, and showing my respect, and recognising my responsibility to care, to see, to really see them, I make art that fills my heart with love and hope.
Am I an expert at creating this art? Nope, and given how much there is to learn about my chosen mediums I would need several lifetimes to do so. Am I an expert at my own form of shapeshifting in devotion to honouring our wild kin with my creativity? I am trying. I think I could be on the way. But I also hope that I get to do this forever, that I get to share this process with you forever.
And that maybe when you look at my paintings you get to shapeshift a little too.
These gorgeous three beings are ready for you to bring them home.
I loved reading this. I once was asked to create a Dolphin that might become an animation for children. Only when I could feel their movements inside myself and feel how the swim through the waters and jump out of it with joy and delight, I knew I could do it ... It's one of the best ways to become very empathic ... because ... you don't hurt yourself!
Thank you, Natalie. Your words remind me of an interview with Jackie Morris. She was asked whether she imagines animals in movement when she paints, and she responded that she imagines she is the animal, just as you do. A beautiful kind of shapeshifting.