I went on a long drive recently.

My favourite way to drive from Melbourne to northern NSW is inland, west of the mountains.

Everywhere I drove I fell in love. That kind of deeply in love that I usually reserve for humans or really nice jackets. Every town I passed I wanted to stop and capture the buildings, the communities, the gorgeous landscapes of golden gum trees and distant blue mountains...

I immediately began wondering how long it would take me to paint these vistas and whether or not it would be worth it or maybe I should just try selling photographic prints instead.

This transition from creative, generative desire to cost benefit analysis happened, and always happens, without my notice or intention. All of a sudden I find myself guesstimating hours labour and cost of materials and wonder how I got there.

I am not alone. Every artist I've spoken to has had the same experience. And the same shit feeling about it.

Last year when I was just beginning to think seriously about Sam Woud Brand, I had the idea that I wanted to price things on a sliding scale according to how much the buyer could afford. When people asked me how I would put this into practice, I said I would operate on an honour system and just trust people to be honest about what they could pay.

People looked at me as though I were insane. Everyone from immediate family members to passing acquaintances. They were all very concerned that I would put so much trust in the opportunistic and deceitful masses. They were sure that I would be taken advantage of, and more to that point, they were certain the business would fail.

When I tried to explain that none of these things concerned me, I was met with unanimous disbelief. I was suprised and disappointed that I couldn't find anyone to share my excitement about experimenting with the structure of my business.

The thing I found most perplexing about all these conversations was the urgent sense of fear. Maybe they were afraid for me, afraid to see me fail? I mean, I can sympathise. Failing at capitalism means not having enough money to take care of yourself. It's a threat to your survival, but my creative practice has never been my meal ticket, and explaining that didn't seem to quell their fears.

I find the impulse to monetise so depressing. I hate that this subconscious shift happens in my mind every time I have a creative idea. I don't want that to happen anymore. I don't care what the cost is. Stopping this automatic switch flip is more important to me. I don't care if that means my 'business' will be a 'failure'. I am determined to decouple my creative practice from capitalism. I will make a concerted effort to deprogram my brain from its toxic influence. I will clear one tiny space in my work life where money doesn't drive my decisions, and I will see what grows there.

If I never make a cent, at least I'm taking trash and turning it into something useful. At least I'm doing something I love. At least I'm making things that bring other people joy. At least I get to build something with my hands. At least I get the pleasure of giving something my care, attention and effort. These things are all rewards in and of themselves. If I have to work three jobs to keep doing art for free, I'm okay with that.

From the outside my creative practice might appear to be crochet, knitting, sewing or printing. In fact these are just a means to an end. My real art is joyfully failing at capitalism.