Rachel Connolly dismantles the fashionable cynicism of our cultural moment by arguing that true agency lies not in passive observation, but in the messy, often destructive act of creation. In a landscape where non-fiction often fixates on powerlessness, Connolly offers a counter-narrative rooted in the vibrant, chaotic reality of her friend Felix's art and their shared history in North London.
The Politics of Making
Connolly begins by identifying a troubling trend in contemporary discourse: a "strangely conservative bent" to conversations about agency, where the dominant narrative insists we have little control over our lives. She positions her own work against this grain, noting that while her non-fiction debates the limits of power, her fiction is populated by characters who "exert their agency too, often in destructive ways, but they exert it all the same." This distinction is crucial; she is not arguing for a utopian lack of consequences, but for the undeniable reality of human will.
The author's central thesis is a rejection of trend-chasing in favor of authenticity. "I think everyone should just make the work they believe in whether it's fashionable or not because otherwise what's the point?" she writes. This is a bold stance in an era of algorithmic content creation, where the pressure to conform to market trends is immense. Connolly argues that the alternative is a silence that benefits no one: "Somebody has to be the one, or one of the handful of people, saying this or that thing they think is true or nobody will say it."
I think everyone should just make the work they believe in whether it's fashionable or not because otherwise what's the point?
Critics might argue that this individualistic approach ignores the structural barriers that prevent many from "making the work," particularly those without the safety net of a supportive community or financial stability. However, Connolly grounds her argument in the specific, tangible reality of her own life, suggesting that agency is often found in the micro-interactions of daily survival and creativity rather than grand political gestures.
The Generative Mess
To illustrate this philosophy, Connolly turns to the studio of Felix, a painter she met while living in a shared house in North London. The setting is familiar to anyone who has navigated the London art scene—specifically echoing the gritty, communal energy often associated with the early days of Central Saint Martins, where Felix completed his undergraduate studies. Yet, Connolly subverts the typical trope of the "horrible" London flat. While others might dwell on the mould and dust, she recalls a space defined by its capacity for connection: "We all had decent sized bedrooms... one of my great offerings as a housemate is that I can fix almost any boiler fault, which actually removes a significant amount of the contact you might usually have with a landlord."
The narrative shifts from the domestic to the creative, describing Felix's workspace not as a sterile laboratory, but as a "swirling, grand mess on the floor." This disorder is not a sign of neglect, but a catalyst for innovation. Connolly observes that "the kind of mess where you can't really say what exactly it is made of... is much greater than the sum of its parts." Here, the physical chaos mirrors the psychological process of creation. Felix finds inspiration in the remnants of his own efforts, noting that looking at a paint-stained mug reminds him that "making something is not so hard."
As Connolly puts it, "Sometimes I just look at it [the paint covered mug for brushes] and think: You're wonderful." This moment of self-affirmation through objects serves as a powerful metaphor for resilience. The studio becomes a monument to failure and retrying, a physical reminder that "all you need to do is try again. And again and again and again."
Capturing the Unguarded Moment
The commentary then pivots to the content of Felix's paintings, which Connolly argues are brilliant precisely because they refuse to smooth over human discomfort. The figures in his work are often "slightly stretched or otherwise warped," a stylistic choice that Connolly interprets as a sign of their unease. "Felix sees them feeling slightly out of place and then paints that feeling clearly so it cannot be avoided," she explains. This refusal to idealize the human form is what gives the work its emotional weight and its ability to capture the specific texture of modern life.
In one piece, titled "Essex Girls," the women appear to "swell in each other's presence," suggesting a community so potent it threatens to overflow the canvas. Connolly notes that while the scenes are set in public spaces, the figures manage to "fold yourself away into your private world in public." This duality resonates deeply with the experience of urban living, where intimacy and isolation coexist. The paintings do not offer easy answers or polished narratives; instead, they offer a "compassion for other people" that is rare in contemporary art.
I see so much compassion for other people in this work. I think that's why I like looking at them so much.
The piece concludes with a reflection on the serendipity of their friendship, recalling a night spent in a Wetherspoons pub—a staple of British social life that has long served as a democratic space for the working class and the creative alike. Connolly admits that her current life, filled with writer friends and creative fulfillment, is a direct result of meeting Felix. "I never thought I would have a life like the one I do now... And I probably wouldn't if I had never met Felix," she writes. This personal testimony reinforces her broader argument: that agency is often exercised through the relationships we build and the work we create together, regardless of the chaos surrounding us.
Bottom Line
Connolly's essay is a potent reminder that the most radical act in a cynical age is simply to keep making things, even when the process is messy and the outcome uncertain. While the piece relies heavily on personal anecdote and may lack a broader structural analysis of the art world's gatekeepers, its emotional resonance is undeniable. The strongest part of the argument is the reframing of "mess" not as a failure of discipline, but as a necessary condition for creativity and human connection.