Collage Art by Toby Leon

We imagine history into existence every day. Shaping the world around us as we go. And I remake histories with every piece. From a motley crew of tales tall and true. A melange of sweet and sour myths, signs and symbols. Cut from copyright free museums all over the world then pasted into Photoshop where I alchemise the lot. Until everyone and everything is ripe enough for my kitsch mythology.

Don’t get the cotton candy twisted. Every piece I create is true. Sourced from truth and grounded by it. But never real, mythologically speaking. Even though reality's a fiction, too. Just the one we're all subscribed to, which doesn’t make it untrue. That's the thing about the truth. Or the past. We know they move in both directions. Myriad, in fact. Never sitting still or doing as they’re told. Forever questioned, dissected, reframed and upended. Queered and inverted. Packaged and performed. Told, retold, adapted then sold. Evolving like everything else. Which is why I like to think my art exists outside of time. Reaching for infinity instead of reality. A kaleidoscope of mish-mashed truths that are only ever as surreal as we choose to make them...

Toby Leon

There’s only one rule for dealing with creative blocks: just try. Try again. Try something new. Then try again. Yes, really, try again. And try to be the kind of friend to yourself that you’d be for someone else… as best you can.

As for what creative blocks are in the first place, they’re catharsis in disguise. The friction that will (eventually) force us to change if we don’t heed its sweeter invitations. Only blocking us if we keep denying the inevitable. So find creative outlets that work for you now, which may or may not be making art. Lean into the discomfort of not knowing. Don’t worry if things that used to fuel you don’t anymore. That’s one of the creative block’s greatest tricks. Convincing us change is a sign that things are falling apart or not worth bothering with. But I say, those signs you think spell doom are actually invitations to evolve… if you flip them upside down and turn them inside out, that is.

Cross-cultural connections, unanswered questions, overlapping histories where the aperture widens and possibilities emerge from the margins. Nothing’s so easily defined in my work, because history hasn’t settled on an answer to many of the questions that pique my interest. Or the ‘answers’ need unpacking. Reimagining, at least. Feeding into my love of liminal spaces. Often found in those haphazard gaps between childhood and adulthood, which I furnish with reckless abandon. Or the static electricity of queer tales omitted from history’s ‘greatest hits’. And last but not least, old faithful AKA those peculiar jolts between fine art and postmodern trash. That shock and awe blend of camp, kitsch and just plain tacky always draws me in. Reminding me how chintzy classicism’s been from the beginning. 

You own your evolution by actively seeking feedback. My approach has always been gung-ho, but you can build up the tolerance over time. And in my experience… it’s how people get ahead fastest, because it’s learning and networking in one. Besides, there’s so much talent out there. So when you think about what distinguishes people who make impact or kick goals or whatever you want to call it… it’s not always talent, is it? Which is why feedback matters so much. So start small and ask early. Build up the strength ’til you can approach people whose reaction makes you nervous. Until you can hear criticism and not take it personally, because you asked someone about art, which is subjective, even if it’s yours. Beyond all that, so many great opportunities happen for people who keep turning up, going the extra mile and showing how much they care by asking for feedback AKA my 1-2-trifecta for getting yourself taken seriously.

It’s a discomfort that’s been vital for me. My work is intentionally offensive to good taste, because I don’t see a distinction between fine art and lowbrow besides taste. Many do, of course, and my art is clearly not for everyone. Never imagined it would be. Which has often given me a feeling of comfort, funnily enough. The hardest part’s over before it’s begun — I know I’m not for everyone. And I get as much value from people who love what I do as those who don’t much care. Both tell versions of the truth about my work that I may not have noticed otherwise. So lean into the discomfort, I say. Ask broadly and ask often. It gets easier the more you do it. Until eventually, you crave it.

I hope nothing’s ever truly complete, because that’s a dead end bore. As for when it’s time to step back from a piece and share it, I try not to force a resolution. I find the work suffers when I do. These days, when I hit a wall, I pivot. Nothing fancy — I clean, go for a walk, escape into film, stretch — anything that distracts me long enough to come at the same piece again with fresh eyes. Sometimes walking away is the only route to seeing your work clearly.