The Living Artist

If you were a member of a local speculative fiction fan club, and I was invited to a meeting to talk about my art, what would you want to hear me talk about?

I’ll be at the PARSEC meeting tomorrow (1:30pm at the Squirrel Hill branch of the Carnegie Library), along with two other artists, to talk about my art. Should be fun, but I’ve never done anything like this before so am curious what I should talk about, “my art” being a rather large topic….

In other news, yes, I know it’s been quiet here lately. I’m rather burnt out on social justice work of late, and have a lot going on in my personal life, so have been laying low and trying to keep my head screwed on straight. I do have some new artwork coming very soon, though.

What does that painting mean again?

The confluence of two of my past posts has made something new clear to me: when someone asks me twhat a painting means, I should be overjoyed, because it means I made them think, and they want to open a dialogue rather than shutting down and turning away. That is success. That is my art doing what art is meant to do.

Sure, there still may be those who are looking for a label to slap on the blinking question mark in their heads, or who are asking an empty question just to be polite, but I will hold out the hope that those will be in the minority.

The other thing my recent blogging has been pointing me towards is the need for a new direction in the underlying purpose of my art. Up to now it has been the creation of visual anchors for inspirational concepts (and, of course, I only come up with this succinct summary of that purpose now that it’s becoming obsolete). But for the past year I have been finding myself bored. New images come to mind with the same frequency as always, but I find myself unmoved by the stories underneath the images, at least on the level I need to commit myself to painting them.

My new direction is fuzzy at best, but I believe it will be far more direct in challenging people’s boundaries and dominant paradigms. Doing that is something I’ve always liked, but it has been a lower priority; something I’d tack on or work into the background (of Lilith, for example, as storied here; or in something as simple as making my female figures heavier than the fashionable ideal). And it’s clearly time for my priorities to change.

Aaaaaagh! I HATE this question!

First of all, because I’m not sure whether they’re asking what format, what medium, what subject matter, or something else entirely. And if I ask for clarification, it generally turns out they’re not sure either! So I repress the urge to just hand them a business card and walk away, instead stumbling through some kind of bastardized truncation of my Artist’s Statement, feeling fake and awkward all at the same time.

Here’s the thing. While I will happily talk at length about any specific work of mine, trying to sum it all up is next to impossible, because my art is me, with all of my complexities, dreams, and inconsistencies. Can you sum yourself up in a sentence? Without feeling fake, or dishonest, or pretentious?

If you can, more power to you. I’ve yet to figure out a way to do it.

Hand in hand with the angst of getting this question is the Rite of Passage every artist must go through when attempting to turn pro: the aforementioned Artist’s Statement.

*ominous music*

Pretty much any competition, juried show, or gallery will want to see your Artist’s Statement: a few paragraphs that sum up what you’re trying to Say with your art. In theory this is a way to separate out those artists who have developed enough to have a Cohesive Body of Work. In practice it is an exercise in self-flagellation, angst, and the strong desire to trash everything in your studio and start over with a completely different direction. This process is especially trying for a young artist, who is generally still experimenting! Not to mention my fundamental resistance to the idea of trying to define my art in words. Wasn’t the whole point of my using images to transcend what could be said in words?

But no, if I wanted to move forward, it had to be done. When I set out to write mine, I looked at the statements of artists in galleries and online, and found them full of flowery, pretentious prose that said basically nothing. I did the best I could to write mine in that voice while struggling to remain authentic. I still have no idea if I succeeded.

Anyway, back to the original question. If I ask it – “what kind of art do you do?” of another artist, I’m generally asking for medium and subject matter; but when I respond this way many askers seem disappointed, or like they were hoping for more.

If you ask this of an artist, what kind of answer are you looking for?

(Okay, okay, that’s more of a comment than a question, but I started the “Overasked…” thing and “Overmade Comments and Questions” doesn’t scan as well. So there.)

So. When confronted with an artist, sooo many people spontaneously exclaim “I can’t draw!” It’s probably the single most frequent comment OR question I’ve ever gotten.

Well, of course you can’t draw as well as I can. You haven’t spent the last quarter century practicing.

No other discipline is treated as lousily as art when it comes to encouraging young people. Once you get past preschool – and possibly even earlier – kids must have “talent” or they are discouraged from even trying!

Think about this. Do you, when confronted with a virtuoso violinist, exclaim “I can’t play the violin!” When you meet a long-distance runner, do you open conversation with “I have no endurance!” Some people do, sure, but it seems to be much more common with regards to art.

(These sorts of comments I believe are intended as roundabout compliments, but really all they do is sell yourself short, and imply that the person you are complimenting only got where they are due to some magical inborn characteristic that you, the speaker, don’t have. That’s really not that much of a compliment when you think about it!)

Anyway. So you believe you can’t draw. Perhaps you are convinced that there is an innate artistic trait you are lacking. Perhaps you had a well-meaning parent or teacher react badly to an early artistic attempt. Perhaps you have this firm idea in your head of what an artist “should” be able to do, and are discouraged by how far you are from that ideal. Perhaps you see drawing as a purely conscious process, coming from the brain and the hand, and get frustrated from your attempts to impose perfect control on your movements.

I’m convinced, after seeing far too many people timidly second-guessing their every mark on the page (I’ve done it too – still do it on occasion, truth be told) that a large part of drawing “talent” is getting your brain out of the way. Try this –

Get a paper and pen. Put the pen down.

Close your eyes.

Think of something grand, flourishing, and beautiful. A symphony, or the curve of a loved one’s back, or a sunrise. Internalize the feeling. Feel it suffusing every cell, making you glow with its light. Raise your dominant arm, and release that energy with one grand sweep of your arm.

Remember the motion you just made. How smooth it was, how graceful its curve, how decisive its meaning.

Do it again, but holding the pen. Don’t try to mimic the motion exactly, but recall the feeling that led to the motion.

Then do it again, this time with the paper happening to fall beneath the pen.

Look at the line you made. How smooth it is, how graceful its curve, how decisive its meaning. How much easier it was to draw from your heart than from your uncertain, self-doubting brain.

From there it’s all technique, and technique can be learned. You can draw. It just takes practice.

Another question I very frequently get: “what is this painting about?”

As Quentin Tarantino told a crowd at Comic-Con (I was there), “what do you think’s in the briefcase?”

What do you think the painting is about?

Seriously. Once I declare a painting “done”, it’s not about what I think anymore. It’s about a dialogue between the painting and you, the viewer.

Sure, I’ve got my ideas, and I’ll tell you if you really want to know (and probably more than you want to know, as I’ve spent hours upon hours in front of that canvas). But beyond the simple facts of the figures and objects portrayed, what it really means is individual and unique to you, your experiences and feelings, and how they react to the image I’ve made.

Take the world’s (arguably) most famous painting, the Mona Lisa. Do you know how many words have been written, comic references made, rude jokes cracked, on the subject of her smile? Do you think the painting would be anywhere near as fascinating if there were a mirror-writing inscription on the back not only finally identifying the model, but what she was thinking as she posed? The ambiguity means that every individual gets to have their own theory, and to make their own personal connection with the work and its subject.

An amusing semi-related anecdote to wrap this up.

A couple of years ago I had some paintings hanging at a co-op gallery in the small town where I lived. One was Lilith, a character of fascinating mythological depth who has come to be a symbol of feminine power and independence. I came in one day and the volunteer coordinator was talking with one of the other artists. Seeing me, she exclaimed “Oh! Heather! We have something we wanted to ask you about one of your paintings!”

She led me over to Lilith, pointed to the swirly purple bits behind the figure, and asked in a very loud whisper, “Is that a VAGINA?”

I laughed and said that yes, it was, and they were very perceptive for noticing it (it really was intended to be a mostly-hidden image, noticeable only by those people who wouldn’t be horrified at such a thing). I was mildly worried that, having discovered this, the gallery board would ask me to take the painting down for violating community standards or somesuch, but that was the last I heard of it.

So yes – to some, it is, in fact, a VAGINA. To others, it could be a flower, or abstract swirls echoing the curve of Lilith’s back.

There are many other amusing stories associated with the creation of Lilith, which I will recount eventually, I’m sure.

But for now – VAGINA!

Hee.

Ah, the dreaded question asked of any creative person, artist, writer, musician, director…. The temptation to give some sort of flip, sarcastic answer is very strong because the real answer is this:

Ideas are cheap.

Seriously. I get ideas from everywhere, everything, from a well-turned phrase in a book to a chance movement by someone on the street to the scuff pattern in the carpet. I am overflowing with ideas. Ideas are not the hard part. The  hard part is picking the good ones, focusing and developing them into something strong enough to support a full painting (or novel, or symphony, or play). My studio is full of half-finished paintings where I discovered midway that the idea was weak, or my focus was wandering, or the circumstances were not right for it. You can waste years spinning your wheels on ideas that sound great but just aren’t developing.

I’m also a poker player, so in my world ideas are like poker hands. Some are better than others, sure, but depending on the circumstances and how you play it, any idea can hit the jackpot. Other ideas can start off looking great, but will destroy you if you push them too far.

As Neil Gaiman says here, “You get ideas all the time. The only difference between [creatives] and other people is we notice when we’re doing it.”