In a few months it will be five years since I returned to Sydney to rebuild my life as an artist.
Before leaving Brisbane I rented a room in a boarding house via WhatsApp. I packed the art materials I had left in a few boxes, along with some clothes and books, and sent them by road. Gently filled a second-hand vintage black Tods D bag with a change of underwear and toiletries. Stuffed an old black North Face backpack with a sleeping bag, my ten-year-old laptop and various electrical cords. Took a one-way flight. Caught a train and bus to a suburb I didn’t know.
For the first few nights I slept on the carpeted floor with no pillow. Then on a twenty-five-dollar air mattress from a discount store. I blew into it until my lips were numb and tasted of rubber, paused and repeated ‘til it was firm. The next night, I slid flattened cardboard packing boxes underneath it to block the worst of the cold.
The room came with a desk and a chair. It was dark, even at midday. I walked to and from the discount store to buy inexpensive lights, a large bar heater and a clothes drying rack. I listened to Henry Rollins reading Get in the Van: On the Road with Black Flag over and over again.
“Go without a coat when it’s cold; find out what cold is. Go hungry; keep your existence lean. Wear away the fat, get down to the lean tissue and see what it’s all about. The only time you define your character is when you go without. In times of hardship, you find out what you’re made of and what you’re capable of. If you’re never tested, you’ll never define your character.”
Feeling vulnerable, scared and lonely, I joined a nearby muaythai gym. I wanted somewhere to go at night. Hopefully, to also be able to defend myself if necessary – or, at least, to be fit enough to run away fast.
I tested the waters of the artworld to see if anything had changed. It hadn’t. As word spread of my return I received a number of offers by art intermediaries keen to capitalise on my weak position. And not just financially. A well-known ‘good guy’ offered to help me secure a free studio – which involved spending time together without telling his wife. I had opportunities to re-join the traditional commercial gallery system. I declined, declined, declined.
Instead, I documented my progress via photographs taken with a digital camera and self-timer. I posted them with short captions, alongside small new artworks, on Instagram. I didn’t prefer it to any other platform but that’s where the party was at.
My closest friend, whom I met in the private psychiatric hospital, came to stay for a weekend before dying of suicide (elsewhere). I didn’t know what else to do except continue. Other boarders came and went. I remained, trying to ignore the drama innate to temporary low-budget accommodation. I woke at 7am each day and started work at 8am. Mostly. Walked to an Italian café at 10-ish for a piccolo latte and 20 minutes reading. Resumed work until 4pm. Some days were more productive than others but either way the routine helped. Walked to muaythai in the evenings. Walked to the supermarket and returned with a heavy backpack of food staples and no money left over. Steadily worked my way through my last bottle of Valium. Occasionally took a half tablet of the lowest dose of Quetiapine to help me sleep. I looked at myself in the mirror and repeated silently, to my reflection, “Hold your nerve”. Practised the mindfulness exercises I learned in hospital. Re-read the poems Letter by Franz Wright and Risk by Anaïs Nin:
Risk
And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to blossom.
I received a few small private commissions via email, which I painted under a daylight lamp. Though I mixed the colours outside, in real daylight, where I could see better. When the paintings on paper were finished I emailed photographs of them to their collectors, received the final payment and flat-packed them for delivery via courier. The profit enabled me to rent a small room to use as a dedicated studio.
These photographs are from my first week at the boarding house.
Hazel Dooney began her controversial, widely read ‘blog, Self Vs. Self, in 2006. By 2010 Dooney was ubiquitous in Australia, her work was included at auction in Christies London, and she was emerging in America. Abruptly, the artist withdrew. From 2012 to 2017 Dooney received intensive treatment at a private psychiatric hospital. Returning to Sydney, she worked on a major private portrait commission from 2018 to 2021. Dooney is currently developing new art.
This chaptered narrative will be a recurring online column at Coagula Art Journal.