Playday Diary
For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been using my playdays to reconnect with a process I discovered a real fondness for during my PhD: screenprinting. Back then, it was a way to step away from my computer and get my hands dirty—a way to experiment with new ideas, new equipment, and new ways of moving and working. The work I produced in the print studio led to my first exhibition with my good friend Jenny Jokela, and my first table at a maker’s fair. I’m hardly brilliant at it, but I get a lot out of it.
When I graduated and was no longer allowed to use the university equipment, I signed up at Edinburgh Printmakers. It’s a really inspiring space, full of incredibly talented printmakers, where I get to do what I want. But yesterday, when I went along to the studio, I felt a looming sense of obligation—like I was there because I had to be, not because I’d chosen to be.
The time I spent in the studio felt pressured. I felt a pressure to produce “good” experiments—not necessarily complete works of art, but objects that could be shown to contribute to my own playfulness or the wider research project. This was a familiar feeling, but in a new context: the difficulty of separating experience from output. Added to this was the pressure to make the most of the time I had set aside—and had been permitted to set aside—for play. Instead of embracing it as time to get things wrong, I fell into the habit (and it is a habit) of thinking that the time needed to be productive. By “productive,” I again mean producing something good. Good for the research, good as art, good for me—I don’t know—but something good. I recognised the feeling that I was failing at some unspecific thing.
Reflecting on this, there’s a lot to think about, but two recurring thoughts stand out for me: first, the lack of plan; second, the knowledge that this playtime is, strictly speaking, work time.
Regarding the first, I’m still finding it hard to leave space open for playfulness and spontaneity, while knowing that I benefit from structure and scaffolding. Perhaps my recent post on the rules for playdays was premature—perhaps I need to figure out what playdays really are, and how they work. One thought I’ve been considering is that having them on a specific day might be creating the wrong kind of structure: a structure that forces me to think, “What am I doing on Monday?” rather than allowing a more in-the-moment approach to play. If I am stuck on a piece of writing, for example, maybe that is the time to step away and do something creative, rather than trying to squeeze it into a specific time when I may or may not feel playful.
The second part is trickier. Really, I think it’s about trust. I have to trust myself that the time I give to play is not wasted—and of course it isn’t. Play is inherently valuable. Playtime only becomes wasted if I allow inertia to creep in; regardless of what I’m doing—even an unscheduled walk—it isn’t wasted. Whether going for a walk, going to the cinema, or reading a book, when faced with a work problem: “Was that free time, or was it simply the early part of some work?” (Kent and Steward, 2002, p. 154).
I also have to trust that my colleagues—in particular, my line manager—acknowledge the potential that I might return from playful moments with very little to show for it. But they know this: together, we carved out this specific time to be playful during work hours. And what is very little, anyway? Very little work that is “finished” according to my own aesthetic and artistic preferences is different from very little anything at all, as my growing stack of screenprints—and my growing number of blog posts—shows.
Part of the practice of plork is about trust. I must trust myself, trust the process, and trust that others “get it,” so I don’t get too wrapped up in the hows and whats of playdays. And that’s the rub—balancing freedom with restriction. I have some new ideas. We shall see where they lead.
“It is the way of disappointment to expect too much, or only to work or only to play. So you have to lower your expectations, hope for the best, and work and play.” (Kent and Steward, 2002, p. 155)