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[the artist is struggling]

Photo by Marcelo Jaboo

I’m not sure what else to tell you except that I have been here, just not here.

So much has happened in the space since we last spoke, and I suppose the weight of it all has made it difficult to write to you. Not necessarily for lack of words, or care, or want to share, but because I needed time.

I lost my Babcia at the end of July and I miss her dearly. I thought to ring her the other day and found myself caught in the painful realisation that I couldn’t. Although part of me still wishes she had stayed longer, I also know she is somewhere kinder than here. It has been difficult to carry the grief of losing her and muster the strength to keep going. The past few months have whiplashed me between highs and lows, and when friends and loved ones and coworkers have asked me how I’m managing, the only real answer I have is: damage control. Forget about taking things one month, one week, or even one day at a time—I now know better than to underestimate the sheer boundlessness of one moment. And so, that is how I have been living: momentarily; in unsparing momentum.

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When time between letters passes in the way that it has, I never quite know how to return. I imagine you, dear reader, sitting across from me asking, “Well, what now?”, and I suppose it’s best to begin by being terribly honest—I’m not entirely sure.

In May, I shared my plans to make Ruminations tangible through an annual print edition of Altars & Artists, and a letter club designed to transform our exchanges into something tender and tactile. They were significant offerings I had spent months thinking over and planning, but you and I both know that even the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry. I’ve not given up on them, at least not entirely and not yet. More than anything else, I miss interviewing artists for you just as much as I miss writing letters. But in trying to make Ruminations something bigger than it ever was, it became a lesson in unmaking and accepting the limitations of the very human woman that I am.

Much could be said of the current state of the Arts in Australia and beyond. For instance, the most recent national investigation into the practices of Australian authors revealed that the average annual income for authors in 2022 was $18,200, and a measly $5,700 for poets (yours truly) specifically. A 2024 study reporting on the working conditions of artists in Australia revealed that, despite accounting for nearly two thirds of artists across nearly all creative fields, women still earned 19% less on average than men. I could elaborate further and further and further on the compounding inequality that grows the greater you stray from the “norm” and the precarity and ridiculousness of it all, but it’s really nothing new. I, like everyone else, am trying to stay afloat.

But I am also trying to make things better. Leave this place better than I found it, if you will. And so, I have dedicated much of my time this year to doing just that. I started volunteering for WA Poets as their Social Media Officer last December, and have since used my very handy gen z internet skills (and many new things I’ve learned along the way) to help bring the organisation’s mission to life. That is: to stimulate the vibrancy, diversity, and cohesiveness of the entire WA community through the support, development and promotion of poetry as an art form; to create opportunities for poets in WA to have their voices heard; and to continually aim to make these productions more visible to the wider community by strengthening and building relationships between local, national, and global arts communities. My own goals, essentially.

Photos from OUT of Line, a queer poetry showcase I organised and hosted this year’s Perth Poetry Fesitval! I was terrified to emcee for the first time, but watching each of the poets bring their work to life made it all worth it and so very special :’)

On one hand, the experience has been invaluable and given me a lot of hope. On the other, I’ve seen just how hard everyone must work to not only keep things running but continue pushing full steam ahead towards those goals. The reality is sobering. And ubiquitous.

Access to art and culture is a fundamental human right, and yet even undertaking the task of ensuring its accessibility is, itself, largely inaccessible. The fact of the matter is the cultural and economic value of the arts remains both underappreciated and underestimated, and the industry needs more than a (still very welcome) revival—it needs transformation. To have been able to dedicate as much time as I have to voluntary work this year is therefore a reflection of my personal privileges, but also just my stupidity poor boundaries naivety passion for the poetry and literature and willingness to tolerate the less desirable repercussions of my efforts—namely an atrocious work-life balance, regular vulnerability hangovers, dwindling funds, persistent ADHD burnout, and growing student debt because yes, you had best believe I’m doing everything I can to turn this damned thing around.

Which I suppose leads me to an aspect of my life I’ve been hesitant to speak to: my studies. My creative writing master’s is arguably the thing that takes up the majority of my time and is one of the main reasons this letter has grown somewhat dormant. Because between writing and working and volunteering and grieving and simply trying to exist, I have somehow also been studying. And I adore it—even the research. It probably comes as no surprise from someone with a newsletter called “Ruminations”, but I honestly didn’t expect to love research as much as I do. My dissertation combines my love for poetry with my passion for gender equality by recognising feminine rage as an apt response to experiences of affective injustice and offers poems as places within which this rage be constructively expressed. Needless to say, I have Ethel Cain on repeat.

So where does this bring us?

The University of Oxford, hopefully.

Over the past few months, I’ve been quietly preparing an application for Oxford’s MSt in Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies. It’s terrifying to say so aloud. Like I’m jinxing myself. Or making a fool of myself. Or both. It feels silly to dream so big in a world that frequently makes me feel so small, but that’s also precisely why I want to go. I’m forever stunned by the audacity of white men and it’s about time I gave them a run for their money. And unlike said white men on their glorified pedestals, I have everything to gain.

“When I dare to be powerful, to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid.”
― Audre Lorde

Quite frankly, I am sick of living in a world where human rights are up for debate and diversity, equity, and inclusion remain points of contention. I’m especially tired of all the ways we hurt each other and our gross disregard for life. It’s horrifying. Infuriating. Disastrous. It’s something that deeply pained my Babcia until the very end of her life. Words are, and likely always will be, my instrument of choice. And so, I will continue to do whatever my mind and body can manage to equip myself with the knowledge, skills, and tools necessary for resistance—even if they’re located in a different hemisphere, even if it takes me longer than others, even if I fail and must search harder for them here.

I don’t yet know what the fate of this letter will be because I don’t yet know my own fate. I’ve been thinking a lot about subscriptions as a form of patronage vs consumption and the declining value seen in the former. Time away has shown me all they ways I’ve tried to commodify my writing for the latter, and how it has ultimately left me here, in an awkward in-between. Regardless, I know many of you who have chosen to support my writing in this way, even if only for a short time, are creatives too. And to each of you, artist or otherwise, I am incredibly grateful—thank you, truly.

For now, I am tired and trying my best. Pulling away and pulling things back with me. Rearing my little head when the time feels right; when I’ve found the right words; when the words are no longer mine to keep.

Caitlin x

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