Art and Dyspraxia

Growing up with dyspraxia

Growing up, there was no escaping the fact that I was clumsy. I would spill things, walk into tables, trip over seemingly flat surfaces... And I was a day-dreamer too, and often my accident-prone nature was attributed to absent-mindedness. Throughout my childhood, there was just a niggling doubt over my adequacy. Nothing major, and nothing that I would in any way identify as terribly out of the ordinary for someone finding their feet in the world. But I did develop an enduring fear of ball games. And I did dread school reports because of the ever-predictable feedback that I must improve my handwriting (it's still terrible and I'm still not convinced it matters). And more to the point, have these people even noticed the way that snowflake dances on the wind like a butterfly?

My mum moved into teaching when I was school age, and she later focussed in special educational needs. So when I was in my twenties, she asserted that she thought I was dyspraxic. No matter. Now, in my twenties, nobody was asking me to catch a ball. Nobody batted an eyelid when I said that no, I absolutely did not wish to go on a bike ride. And now at university, not once was my hand-writing mentioned.

And I didn't really think anything more of it until my son was born. This little monkey was an absolute ray of sunshine. But I thought it strange that he didn't learn to crawl until he could walk. And it perplexed me that nobody else could understand the words he was trying to form in his mouth (even now, at the very grown up age of seven, he pronounces 'lasagne' with a 'p' - "pasagne"). And gradually a few things seemed to click into place. Because when I was growing up, dyspraxia was considered to be 'clumsy child syndrome'. But as I watched him continue to have reliance on me and his dad (another ray of sunshine) whilst his peers developed their indepedence, I realised that there's more to dyspraxia than breaking a few glasses and bruising a few shins. He's more cautious and needs more reassurance than his friends. He struggles to find words. And he's slow to process his thoughts. And all of these are traits that I recognise in myself, and which fall well beyond the label of 'clumsy child'. So I wanted to write this post in part to interrogate how dyspraxia has impacted and informed my artistic practice, and in part to tell my younger self that all those spilt cups of tea, all the bruises, all of the times I accidentally painted the cat - that they were all worth it.

Thinking Slow

One of the hall-marks of dyspraxia is a slow mental processing speed. And, granted, I have never been able to answer questions quickly. My recall is poor, which has left me better able to grapple with processes than knowledge. In school I excelled in subjects where the answers could be worked out, and fell behind on those that required memory. And those subjects where there wasn't even a 'correct' answer to reach - those were gold. Hello art.

And whilst I wasn't able to think quickly, I was able to think thoroughly. I wonder if this forced slowness of thought allowed me to become more lost in my thoughts than most. I couldn't rush to the answer, but I could work my way out to the answer, and sometimes I might notice things along the way. And this is really important as an artist. Because with all the skill in the world, it doesn't amount to much if you have nothing to convey - if you've never noticed anything about the world.

Me - slow thinking about... something.

Slow Processing and Slow Processes: How art and dyspraxia can co-exist

But with dyspraxia, even processes can be a little tricky. When your hand/eye/body coordination is out of whack, fairly straightforward tasks can require a lot of concentration.

And whilst it might seem a paradox that someone who's clumsy and accident prone should be doing works that are very very reliant on physical dexterity, having a very narrow point of focus actually feels quite comfortable for me. I lean into repetitive tasks that develop into muscle memory. My movements are concentrated in small areas (impending disaster if I ever try to use my legs and arms at the same time with any kind of artistry). I've developed a practice that can only be done slowly (sorry, galleries), and which is elevated for it. Whilst Mark Zuckerberg moves fast and breaks things, I move slow and fix things. It's better for my skills and better for my soul.

Only once-in-a-while do I drop petals in my tea or stick watch parts to my jeans. And I can live with that.

The Risks of the Comfort Zone

The SEN lead in my son's school described the ways in which the brain holds information as 'sticky'. The dyspraxic brain finds new information and processes less 'sticky' than most, she said, but it becomes more sticky through repetition. It can take us a long time to learn a new skill, but we learn it thoroughly.

This likely gives some insight into my own practice. I am drawn into methodologies that hone in on slow, repetitive processes, not just because it feels physically easier, but psychologically it feels like a safer. I know that with any new process or new skill it will take me many iterations to get it right - many more than most. I find myself resisting change and sticking to the things I know, and this can be at the cost of new ideas and projects. Recently I've found myself developing new relationships with people that will give me the push I need to force me out of my comfort zone when I don't have the confidence to do it myself, and have had to become more ok with asking for help.

Re-finding Safety through artistic practice

One of the most dramatic ways that dyspraxia has impacted me is through a prolonged corrosion of confidence. The world never felt like an easy fit for me. Not only did my brain drift off in directions that other people's didn't, but I would suddenly also become aware that my walking was a tad 'off', or I'd trip over my words, or I'd walk smack into a lamp post (that one hurt), and would just feel embarrassed by my ineptitude with basic skills. I withdrew into myself and became increasingly introspective.

When my son was born and started showing his own dyspraxic traits, it became my mission to protect him from this erosion of self-worth, to be his safe space, to build a reality where he would feel safe and valued and seen.

A safe shoulder to nibble

And I realise now that my practice has always been this. It's always been the counter-narrative to a world that didn't feel entirely safe to me: a place that exists in the slow, in the details, in the day dreams. I've always intuited that I can't be the only person who needs a different kind of landscape. I hope that in some ways the works I create are a safe landing place for someone else to fall, to feel seen and to find sanctuary. It's only recently that I've come to realise that it's thanks to - and not in spite of - my dyspraxia that these ways of working and these counter narratives have been available to me.

I still have work to do, and I hope you'll stick with me on a journey through a different kind of landscape. But for now, I'm off to make a pasagne.

x