In the beginning everything was clear. The road lay ahead and the maker was anxious to get started. It all seemed so simple. He had read about those that went before him and was in no doubt that he too could find his way. Know his mark and make it. And so he left the safety of convention and began walking. In his naivety he believed that when the time came everything would make itself known. It would be obvious, would all click into place.

However, what the young maker didn’t realise is that the making of a mark is not simply an individual act made without influence. It is not enough to want to travel rather it is what route, how you travel and where you make your mark that matters. The act of mark making and the journey it necessitates does not reside in a vacuum rather it is affected from birth by a system. A system we wear as we do our old favourite clothes, faded jeans, dress, t –shirt. Clothes so worn and tattered that we forget their significance, forget they’re even there although the drawer is always full and we have nothing to wear. We keep them because they make us feel safe, assure us of ourselves, who we are. They are our comfort blanket. These things have a hold on us and we refuse to throw them out. Instead we spend our time repairing them, sewing back together, patching them up, letting them out, pulling them in, stretching them down, stuffing them in bags, moving them around all the while refusing to admit that they no longer fit. That room should be made, space be made. Clutter discarded  

His first days on the road were liberating. Everything was possible, the air crackled, the light was bright, colours vibrant, his thoughts flowed quickly through him like rapids on a river – too fluid too grab, too fast to see, to make sense of but always leaving a trace of a smile on his face. He thought much about the coming years, what he was going to do, his plans, the type of space he’d build in which he could make his mark, tell his story – it was all a big adventure, exciting. He couldn’t wait to get there, wherever that was, wherever he was to build the foundations of his space.
The young maker was oblivious to the pressure that society put on him. He had yet to understand that institutional structures exerted such an insidious influence on everything he did. Structures built by a society that consumed everything around it. All he saw was the road ahead, his head full of ideas, dreams and hope.

The direction he had taken was the only route he knew. It was a road that many had gone down, most had gone down. He knew that his journey was going to be difficult, knew that in some future time he would be isolated, alone and would need help.  But where was he to find this help, who was going to help him? Was his only means of support through the institutions that purported to support makers, creators? Was that such a bad thing? Why not have support structures in place? Do makers not need more help than most? Are they not the custodians of our stories, our history, our culture? These were all questions yet to be asked by the young maker. There would be time enough for that. For now these questions hadn’t even occurred to him as he was only thinking of one thing, making his first mark, creating his own space.   

It didn’t take much time before the young maker made his first mark. It was a momentous occasion. His adrenalin was pumping, he hopped about the road from foot to foot, couldn’t stop moving, he felt like a fighter in the ring. Calm as far away as can be. This is what it’s all about he thought to himself, this is why I’m here, this is what I’ve always hoped for, dreamed of. He made his mark. He stood tall, breathed out and looked at it. The mark was crude but contained all the energy that youth brings with it. It was large and brash. It lacked in subtlety and breadth but made up for it in pure determination, guts, instinct and raw emotion. He could now, at last call himself a maker. No one could take that away from him.