There it was again, another discussion of how to determine what a ‘real’ artist was. Shaking my head in utter dismay, I read a plethora of back and forth positions in the online blog. Oh so long ago, I had been introduced to this topic, had no idea what the term ‘real’ artist meant, and hadn’t found it necessary to evaluate whether I was real or unreal. But there it was again and still being discussed, so this morning I began to wonder why this real vs whatever-other-type-of-artist discussion exists and persists. To quote an awesome woman whose name escapes me, “can’t we all be fabulous?” Is a ‘real’ artist more authentic or true in some manner, maybe in skill, or in number of ideas, or simply in their prolific outpouring of repurposed and/or aesthetically pleasing matter? Could it be that the ‘unreal’ artist accrues lower than a certain level of occupational income, such as van Gogh during his lifetime? Or, is it some other distinction that drives this seeded vs seedless rye discussion?
What I can’t figure out is, who has the time and energy to bother with this distinction? Aren’t artists too busy making art?
Little corked jugs are curious forms. They nestle into any space and seem perfectly willing to take up permanent residence there. A case in point: some of these little guys have been on display for sale at SATO Salon Organics for a while and recently we figured out that they look so comfortable in their spot on the shelf that they avoid moving day. So, they’ll soon be placed in a new location at the salon, but my guess is that they’ll settle in comfortably once again.
That Chuck Close quote is my go-to saying, especially as a high school art teacher, but also as my personal artistic mantra. While I haven’t experienced Close’s seemingly life-long non-stop prolific profusion of ideas, I’ve encountered blinks of time when I believed ‘inspiration’ had eluded me.
When I look back on those snippets of idleness, I realize what appeared to be a lack of inspiration was in reality a form of quasi self-doubt. So I was curious to figure out how that doubt took up residence in my thought process in the first place. Why at times in my life, was there even the hint of a notion that I wouldn’t make art?
Well, that question brings me to another point, one I share with my art students all the time, specifically the difference between product and process. Usually it goes like this: I ask my students to identify themselves as either a product or process person. The product people tend to focus on the end result throughout their art-making, while the process people travel from one possibility to another, never wanting to finish. As an art teacher, this distinction of contrasts between product and process helps me tremendously to understand my students’ motivations as they engage in art making, and the preliminary product/process discussion also establishes a basis for dialogue when we talk about their approach to their work. Of note, I’ve rarely seen a student, who identifies as a process person, ever struggle to get going, although I’ve had countless long conversations with students, who identify as product people, to help get them started. More often than not, I’ve discovered through these conversations that the product person believes getting started requires them to have the finished work in mind; in a concept-driven art course, this rigidity of thought impedes the emergence of creative energy at the outset. The process person meanwhile, is off and running, allowing their creative energy to take them somewhere, anywhere. This brings me back to my question: why at times in my life, was there even the hint of a notion that I wouldn’t make art?
And there was the answer. These days I revel in my creative process and, in the spirit of Chuck Close, I just get to work.
Constructing a large slab-built milk-can requires a bit of planning and plenty of work space. Using bristol board sheets to construct a mock-up of the overall form and I then took it apart to use the pieces for templates. The large slab roller in work made quick work of rolling the largest template shape, which was roughly 30″ by 17″ – for the barrel of the milk can. For transport, I rolled the 15 lb. slab within heavy canvas and plastic sheeting, then placed it inside a rolling suitcase to bring it to my home studio. Once in the studio, I unrolled the soft slab to allow it to set up a bit.
Once the slab was no longer soft, I draped it over a 5 gallon bucket and a wheel bat placed at either end, with heavy canvas between the clay and the supporting structure to allow the clay to set up in a large arc without sticking to the bucket and bats.
The slab sat like this for several hours, checked on from time to time, to determine when it was strong enough to hold its own weight. Once it was strong enough, I stood it up and began to form the cylinder for the barrel of the can. While the large slab had been setting up, I had rolled a smaller slab for the base of the can and let it firm up on a plaster bat, so when the barrel of the can was ready, I attached it to the base and positioned the form on a masonite board.
After wrapping the form in plastic sheeting so it wouldn’t get too dry, I began to roll and cut the slabs for the upper sections of the milk can using the bristol board templates.
After forming the upper sections of the can I placed each part on a plaster bat to set up. Getting these sections leather hard didn’t take too long, because the warm sun and gentle breeze on the back patio provided the perfect drying environment.
After the upper sections were firm enough, I attached them to the barrel, and added a coil to the joint of each upper section, then a handle on either side.
Wrapping the lower portion of the can in plastic allowed the upper section to dry a bit more so some fine tuning of the form’s surface could be dealt with at a later time. Lastly, I took some measurements to record the amount of shrinkage at leather hard -and later at bisque and glaze- since I’d never made this form before.
Setting up the photo booth was easy once I saw that post about using PVC pipe to create the structure.
Using my chop saw made quick work of cutting the pipe to the dimensions I needed; the 3-way fittings and elbows worked great to not only build the box but to make it stable. I draped a few yards of muslin over the top and sides, then stood a piece of matt board at the back. I ran a roll of tracing paper across the ‘floor’ of the booth and up and over the matt board – folded the paper over the top of the board to hold it securely in place, then left the paper uncut on the roll in the front of the booth so it could easily be replaced as needed. With a lamp placed outside the muslin ‘wall’ I was ready to shoot some pottery images. The whole task took about 20 minutes from start to finish. An added benefit is that the PVC is very lightweight which will make it easy to move and quick to disassemble and reassemble should I ever need to do so.
Working on the potter’s wheel naturally leads matter toward cylindrical forms, while the creation of utilitarian objects that interact with the human form require a conformity to a certain proportion. Slab work, combined with wheel thrown work, invites variety as the two methods of building interact with one another. But it all comes down to one thing; I am constantly evaluating the nature of form everywhere everyday.
A geometric shadow washed over an organic human form (a form that contains circular and spherical geometry) demands analysis as well as investigation. What possibilities are inherent in this intersection of parallelograms temporarily floating over organic/geometrical composition?
‘Little mask’ is tiny at just over 5″ tall, yet commands attention. There’s some compelling visual force when you’re in the presence of that tiny facial representation. Emphasis though isolation perhaps explains some of the draw, but no matter where this mask has been displayed over the decades, the result is the same powerful visual energy. It makes me ponder the possibilities that can be unearthed in creating tiny forms that can harness that sense of powerful visual presence.
Forms require consideration from multiple angles, as well as how the inside complements the outside, in addition to how light and shadow interact overall. Those endless possibilities…
It wasn’t the most stylish way to move thirty-some pieces of framed work, but it was the most efficient. Three suitcases, one very large, one medium sized, and one small, along with one canvas bag, did the trick. My niece, Kelly, picked the work up yesterday and graciously offered to hang it all in the Sato salon organics, in the West End.
While picking up the work from the series, “On the Outside Looking In,” Kelly thought some of my wheel thrown pottery would nicely complement this framed hanging work, so out to the kiln shed we went to rummage through my tower of glazed-fired pottery in bins. While selecting a few crates-ful of pottery, Kelly had the idea that when bringing coffee to the Sato patrons, she could pour that java brew into one of a collection of my pottery mugs. So, we went through the bins again to select a group of coffee mugs.
When it was time to load up her car, I wasn’t sure that the suitcases would fit into the tiny real estate of her compact, and now with multiple crates of pottery added to all the artwork, I was even more skeptical of a successful outcome. Somehow it all came together. Who knew you could fit so much into so little square footage?
All my life I couldn’t wait to get old, but I figured that living in a culture that worships youth, my anticipation of being a senior citizen wouldn’t be a very popular perspective to share with others. So, I kept my joy of aging to myself.
Two women in my life provided me with that positive perspective on aging; looking forward to my sixties, seventies, and beyond was a gift from my grandmothers. Throughout my childhood, I saw these two women living their golden years with contentment. Both journeyed through their days in a manner that, to my young eyes, seemed the essence of quiet peaceful living. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, yet had eluded me for most of my life, until now. These days, for the most part, I do what I can to live in quiet peaceful living and contentment.
In the past, living in contentment has been much easier to do during the summer months when I wasn’t teaching, however, I’ve found with each passing year, that an inner peace has been steadily growing, whether I was at work or not. What I discovered was that weeks of summer contentment practice was washing into those working months, as every year there was a greater ease in letting go. Holding-on had been working against my sense of contentment, because it had put conditions on happiness. Removing the need for conditional happiness, enabled me to be content with what is.
So, yesterday, when my grandsons accidentally let the dogs go, I felt my grandmothers looking on and smiling that I still had some adjusting to do.
This question is not often asked, but rather shared as the statement, ‘I’m not artistic.’ Dictionary.com offers that artistic is: “1. conformingtothestandardsofart; 2. showing skill or excellence in execution: artistic workmanship; 3. exhibiting taste, discriminating judgment, or sensitivity; 4. exhibitinganinvolvementinorappreciationofart; or 5. involving onlyaestheticconsiderations. So, it looks like there are several ways to be artistic. But how did ‘skill or excellence’ become equivalent to replication representation as a means of defining one’s artistic ability?
Usually when my students or friends share their perspectives about their lack of an artistic nature/ability, I discover that they’re referring to a perceived lack of representational replication skill in their completed or expected execution – notably of a final product. This eye-on-the-replication-representational-prize perspective can get in the way of the ‘space’ needed for artistic creation – for making and creating art may require decision making, a discerning eye, analysis, and modification, but more importantly, it demands the freedom of happenstance. While discriminating judgement is necessary, and confidence in that judgement needs to be nurtured, serendipitous discovery occurs during process rather than deliberate map-following to a pre-determined end product.
Confidence is the fuel that moves artists forward and allows risk-taking action that moves us past a simple conformity to the standards of art and catapults us into the realm of real artistic possibility. Confidence can be present in artwork long after the artist hand leaves the paper, canvas, clay, or stone; just look at Dali’s line drawings of well…anything. The confident energy of an artist’s hand is embedded in that bold line, daringly pounded brushstroke, or unrepentant application of glaze; for self confidence in one’s artistic nature documents concrete evidence of human creative energy.
Simply put, developing an artistic nature requires the ability to allow plenty of room for our self confidence, as we respond with our senses, to our surroundings.