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Posted on 10/30/2010 2:52:58 PM
By Donald Fox
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Like most artists, I'm sure, I stay busy, and the busyness can sometimes keep me from the studio. Never, though, does the busyness keep me from thinking about art. In fact, many of the best thoughts about art come when I'm not actively engaged in painting. For me this is fortunate because I'm one of those artists that works full time and also does art full time. How can this be? Well, believe me, it takes some planning and prioritizing.
Life is often unpredictable, and how many thousand other clichés can we insert here? Through the years I've made some effort to give up judgment about my life choices and those of others. What has been true for me is that I've been obliged to work for a living at something other than creating art full time. I could make a list of the reasons why (survival being at the top) and another list of all the things I've done in order to pay the bills, but those lists would only mirror what thousands of other artists have done since somebody first thought about the concept of actually making a living from creating art. Let me be clear, though; I don't ever consider myself a struggling artist. I do always think of myself, whatever else I may be doing to earn a living, as a full-time, practicing, professional painter.
Mindset is important for success within any discipline. Because I think like an artist, I can be doing any sort of task and approach it creatively. I can relate it to my interests in painting. I can observe from my creative perspective and contribute utilizing the critical thinking skills that have been honed in and out of the studio. I know how to observe and pick out the important elements, eliminating the distractions and the unnecessary. Whoever said that art is not important or of little value has never tackled pictorial or spatial problem-solving. Look at some of the current business publications or internet blogs by personal coaches and count the number of times the words creative or creativity are used. Practical solutions, more often than not, come from creative thinking in action.
All of my interactions within the working world, the academic community, social communities, or the family are enhanced by my artistic mindset. Experiences from these other aspects of my life also feed back into my artistic expression. My life as an artist does not have to look a particular way or follow a particular path any more than I have to wear a smock to paint or a beret when I attend an art opening. I do have to prioritize my time when not at work, but I know what is important and this naturally takes precedence. Twenty-four seven I think like, act like, and am an artist. I just happen to have a day job as well.
Posted on 10/28/2010 5:58:48 PM
By Donald Fox
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Do you date your work along with your signature? I used to do that religiously, but now I don't. I've come to prefer dating on the back instead of with my signature on the front. Usually I add a copyright symbol as well even though since 1989 that is not required.
Signing a painting, drawing, or any other work of art has never been a question in my mind. Obviously it's important to identify individual work with a signature, and every instructor I've ever encountered has said that the work is not complete until signed. I expect most artists would agree. However, in our litigious age, a signature, along with a copyright symbol and a date, becomes a legal protection. Current copyright law protects artwork when it is created or published (presented to the public). Why not, though, go the extra step and add a copyright symbol and date along with the signature to erase any doubt? And, if you really want to ensure protection, register the work with the U.S. Copyright office (http://www.copyright.gov/). Some artwork can be registered in batches instead of as single pieces to save expense. I have to confess that after researching this years ago, I decided that the hundred dollar registration fee (at that time) for a batch of work was more than I wanted to expend. Instead I just made sure that every work had signature, symbol, and date before it left my possession.
A few years back, however, a painter friend was visiting my studio and casually asked if all my paintings were dated on the front like the ones he saw there. I said yes. He replied that he'd stopped dating his work because his gallery often kept pieces in reserve and preferred no visible date. That way they could include any piece in shows or presentations irrespective of date of execution. He began to date his work on the back as a means of documentation, but only his signature showed on the front. That seemed reasonable to me as I considered the advantage of doing a show on short notice when I might add a few earlier works to fill it out. The pressure would be off from having to complete a lot of work within a narrow time frame. Of course, the older work would need to be ones that were new to the specific market.
As a writer as well as a painter, I firmly believe in the practicality of dating. Journals and sketchbooks contain notes, poems, drawings, and sketches that I would quickly lose their chronology if I didn't date them as I entered them. My habit is to use several journals and sketchbooks simultaneously (larger for detailed work or smaller for convenience of carry). An older journal or sketchbook can also help me place events, people, and circumstances by the dates I have included. I don't know that I'll ever have a biographer, but if I want to write about something from the past within a chronological context, I can easily do that from my own record. This practice has also been invaluable as a way to check progress or changes in creative thinking.
On a painting, though, do I need the date on the front? Now I don't think so. As long as I date the work on the back (with copyright symbol), I feel comfortable with its protection, and I enjoy the flexibility of utilizing the work in whatever setting I choose. Some have argued that a date on the back might be covered up when the piece is framed, but an experienced framer would copy anything written on the reverse and add that to a label. If a customer or patron desires a work to be dated on the front, then I can add the date before delivering the work. Looking around galleries or shows or the internet, I can see that artists have different practices relative to signatures, dates, and copyright notification. The signature is most important to readily identify the maker. Beyond that, I think it's a matter of choice or comfort for the artist. Somewhere, though, the work should be dated if for no other reason than to avoid relying on potentially faulty memory some ways down the road.
Posted on 10/26/2010 2:30:31 PM
By Donald Fox
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I read items frequently about creativity that drift into a nebulous realm of language that may have meaning for the author and seem to resonate with some readers but leave me questioning the importance of understanding the nature of the language being used. Someone may say that art comes from the heart or that art appeals to the heart, the heart knows more than the brain, or the heart is the center of understanding. When the heart is spoken of in this way, isn’t it important to remember that we’re using metaphor? Obviously, the heart is one of the most important organs in the body. It keeps us alive by pumping blood that contains oxygen and nutrients throughout the body thus nourishing the cells of all organs including the heart itself. This primary function makes it easy to see why the heart has long been considered the organ of life (life-giving and life-sustaining). The heart, however, cannot function without the brain.
In the past the heart was seen as the seat of the emotions or as the seat of knowledge depending on which ancient philosopher one reads. The heart is frequently used metaphorically in the Bible and was considered the seat of the soul in ancient Egypt. Romantic literature is filled with references to the heart as the seat of emotions related to love. The lover speaks of his heart yearning for his beloved. Not only is the heart symbolized, but it is also personified. It is interesting that the metaphorical use of the heart has continued into contemporary life even as other concepts of parts of the body have given way to scientific and biological explanation of bodily functions. Objective knowledge has contributed greatly to advancements in civilization and to our understanding of the cosmos. We have used its methods to construct the modern world. This is not to say that metaphor is invalid; that is not the point.
Metaphorical language is very powerful language, but it does require some sophistication of understanding. Aside from deciphering the comparison that is always implied in metaphorical usage, a reader needs some comfort level with ambiguity. Metaphor can often contain multiple meanings some of which may even be contradictory. Because of this multiplicity in meaning, metaphor can lead to misunderstanding more easily, perhaps, than it leads to insight.
Can one actually feel with one’s heart? Is the brain, as interpreter of experience and the body’s computer, actually the source of emotions? Candice Pert in Molecules of Emotion presents strong empirical evidence that we do feel (emotionally) and even think with parts of our bodies other than the brain. This is at the level of neuropeptides that permeate all the bodily cells. Saying this, though, doesn’t mean that particular thoughts emanate from the right big toe or the left elbow or the heart. The memory of traumatic experiences may be stored in these areas to be released given an appropriate stimulus. Anyone who has had deep massage can attest to spontaneous memories of past events surfacing when a certain controlling part of the body is manipulated. Even long suppressed and seemingly forgotten memories can surface because of the neurobiological connections that permeate what Dr. Pert calls the bodymind.
Art, then, that is vague or unstructured (though it may have some semblance of beauty) will usually not be as effective or powerful as art that appeals not only to the heart but also to the mind. Or, we could say that the most effective and affective art appeals to the bodymind.
Posted on 10/25/2010 5:37:21 PM
By Donald Fox
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Sometimes during an interaction with a student, he or she will make a comment about the painting before us. Perhaps there is a hint of longing for acceptance in the voice, the desire to seem knowledgeable and experienced; there could be any number of motivations. In any case, the student may say something like, “I put the center of interest here in order to convey a sense of isolation…” or “I want these shapes to harmonize with the picture space.” But, wait – what about the disproportionate drawing or the muddy color or the stylized leaf patterns that conflict with the more interesting texture that is evident in the shadows? Painting isn't about the lingo.
Painting is about observing, experimenting, notating, and, most importantly, constantly practicing. Forget about making a painting. Observe and paint. What's that? You're not a representational painter? You only do abstraction? Paint and observe. Painters of whatever persuasion utilize basic design principles: shape, size, position, proportion, line (direction), color, value, and texture. Subject is self-selected, and the design principles are chosen to best represent that subject. Formulas result only in formulaic paintings.
There is no substitute for experience. The only way to gain experience is to practice. Paint as often as possible. Question as you go. Learning to see well enough to paint well is the result of many hours of careful, questioning observation. This is why for centuries artists did lots of drawings and painted studies. They weren't in a hurry to make a painting. Some paintings were, in fact, repainted many times. Unless we study these painters and their working methods, we would only see the finished product. The rightness or seeming simplicity of the finished painting often belies the length of process that produced it.
Musicians don't improvise without a thorough understanding of the instrument and music. Dancers don't dance without a trained body that has the strength and flexibility to execute movements fluidly. Why should painters be exempt from the training process that leads to the skills required to execute ideas and achieve results? It's not about the lingo, the language – that only gives us a way to talk about the art. But the lingo doesn't make the painting better. Even self-taught painters, who approach their art with questioning, constantly looking for visual feedback, and continuing practice, make paintings that reach ever higher levels of skilled execution. They understand that the process of painting is a learning process. The learning process, hopefully, is never ending.
Posted on 10/23/2010 8:19:02 PM
By Donald Fox
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Since the earliest of recorded times, even before written language gave us ways to convey specific thoughts one to another, humans have attempted to communicate by leaving some sort of record. The earliest known examples of these records may be appreciated for their simplicity and beauty as seen through contemporary eyes and colored by contemporary perspective. Many archeological texts will identify a human-made object of unknown purpose as simply a ritualistic object. The assumption is that the object was made for some purpose generally thought to connect the maker to his/her universe/cosmos/deity/source. The idea of art as a form of expression is tied to the idea of creation – not just the making of a thing, but the larger concept of having been made in the first place. Thus, art becomes a dialogue concerning the nature of being and creation, the perceptive creature commenting through making on the phenomenon of its own creation.
Cave paintings are interpreted as being about the magic of the hunt, giving the artist/shaman power over the spirit of the animal, the hunted. Various sculptural expressions named the Venus of Willendorf are believed to be about the creative power of woman, fertility, the human vessel of life. Hand imprints adorn cave walls as a purposeful stamp of human presence even though hidden away from ordinary human sight. As the intention of art evolved – a process full of mystery – the art makers seemed to dwell increasingly on the process itself. Just as humans had at some point become self-aware, so was this awareness turned upon the process of making. Questions and reasons arose that affected the outcome of the creation. Naturalism, realism, spiritualism, beauty, truth, utility all became in varying combinations and degree the defining characteristics of a particular culture or historical period. Perhaps it was inevitable that as humans categorized their world in hierarchical format, they would do the same esthetically and spiritually. High art and low art, the art of kings and the art of the people, fine art and popular art. Look through texts presenting the history of ancient cultures and what do you see? Most of the art was commissioned by kings and emperors, created by lowly craftsmen, often executed by slaves, and was hidden from the majority of the people. Slowly, the perception and the reality shifted. Artists gained some recognition. The successful ones served the courts; the less successful may have lived and died in obscurity and poverty.
Somewhere along the way, many artists came to serve often as the critics of the social order, or at the least the recorders of a sort of social history. Others removed themselves from that order to use their craft as a path of contemplation or as a lens through which to understand the visual world. The modern age ushered in an anything goes policy as many artists no longer sought affiliation from a particular governing body, be it secular or spiritual. Those who write the art history books and the art media, magazines and newspapers, assiduously attempt to make sense of the plethora of artistic expression. A reader might conclude that the most “important” art is the new, the daring, the process oriented, and that which continues to challenge the viewer. Art moves beyond painting, beyond sculpture, beyond dance, beyond music, and even beyond sense.
As a painter, I try to keep an open mind, but I do find myself following certain guidelines. I ask myself basic questions when confronting anything that might possibly be art. Does it engage me? Does it keep my attention once it has attracted me? Does its purpose appear to be to challenge me, or is the maker simply trying to offend me? Is there a sense of cohesiveness and unity or is it an extension of disorderliness and fragmentation? Can it be understood on its own merits, or does it require esoteric information to justify its existence? Other questions may come to mind depending on what I'm observing. I admit that I may have my own blind spots, but I want to be able to take something away from the experience. I'm not stuck on vague notions like truth or beauty, but if I'm going to give my time, then the artist better show me something of possible interest (I know, this is vague too – still, it makes sense to me).
Posted on 10/19/2010 3:37:25 PM
By Donald Fox
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The English writer Phillip Pullman said, "I was sure that I was going to write stories myself when I grew up. It's important to put it like that: not 'I am a writer,' but rather 'I write stories.' If you put the emphasis on yourself rather than your work, you're in danger of thinking that you're the most important thing. But you're not. The story is what matters..." When I was in English graduate school, I took a course in the modern American novel. Discussing Fitzgerald, the professor made a comment about writers who write and writers who want to have written. The latter desire to be known as writers rather than nurture that burning desire to write no matter what. That is their primary goal – to be known.
Substitute art for ‘work' and painting for ‘writing,' and the sentiment holds true for the visual artist. I admit that when I was younger I had the desire to be an artist, and in my youthful exuberance even thought of myself as one before I had created anything of significance. Later, though, having met successful artists, among them writers, painters, musicians, and dancers, I realized that the important thing is to ply the craft. Through the years I have chosen to do all sorts of things to enable me the time and resources to learn my craft and to utilize it. After all, what is the value of a great idea if you don't have the skill to express it?
Many times I have seen students struggle with a painting that emanates from some idea of what an artwork is supposed to be. Unfortunately, they don't have the experience or skill to manifest it. The result is usually amateurish and trite. A few probing questions reveals the motivation, which often is a particular show, a specific sale, or sometimes a commission. That desire to be known has reared its head. Wouldn't it be better to continue to nourish and polish one's skills, to let the personal style emerge over the course of many paintings, to do one's due diligence before paper and canvas, and then, if the work is good enough, consider marketing that? Of course this takes patience and some humility, a trait sorely lacking among many self-styled artists.
The best painters, musicians, athletes continually train and nourish their talents. To not do so the practitioner invites, if not catastrophe, at least stagnation and redundancy. As one learns the craft and develops a set of skills, one also develops critical understanding. Thinking critically about one's work is vitally important to continued growth and development in any field of endeavor. One might be “in the zone” while in the act of creating, but is the outcome in keeping with the creative experience? Ask any athlete who has performed at his or her best and still lost the game. Now it's time for the post-game analysis. Your ego may tell you otherwise, but isn't the reason behind creative work to make it the best possible? Sure, it's nice to be recognized, yet consider this question. How does it feel to be praised for a painting that you know is not your best and that may not even be among your best?
Are there paintings that you hold back, or do you put everything out there? Aren't there paintings that sit around the studio because you know they're incomplete yet you're not sure how to complete them? If so, your critical faculties are at work. You know that eventually you'll resolve the issue and complete the work. Your sense of professionalism and creative integrity are more important than faint praise for number of works completed. How you perceive the work with your experienced, critical eye is more important than meeting some imaginary deadline. Isn't it really more satisfying to be the one that paints rather than the one that has painted?
Posted on 10/17/2010 1:26:39 PM
By Donald Fox
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A line of poetry may consist of only one word or a dozen words. The line may complete a thought, raise a question, present an image or metaphor or symbol. It may blend or contrast with other lines. It may bring one's senses to a complete halt. In truth, any number of things can happen with that one line. So, too, in a good drawing the graphic line may carry the viewer to heights of imaginary speculation immediately or through the most complex and circuitous of routes.
A simple illustration is the well-known image from psychological texts used to challenge the viewer's perceptive skills. Seen one way, the image is read as an ugly old woman with a large nose. Many observers first interpret the image in this way. Closer scrutiny, however, can reveal a lovely young woman wearing a Victorian style hat. The line that marks the old woman's mouth becomes a neckband around the young woman's throat. This visual trickery is mostly used to show how we can choose to see the same thing from several points of view, how we may be fooled by and committed to a first impression, how we may have a more positive or negative predisposition, or to illustrate a number of other perceptual phenomena including figure-ground reversal.
Though this particular drawing is not museum quality or intended as art, it does help us understand the ideas of ambiguity, suggestion, and context with which the artist certainly concerns him or her self during the creative process. Oriental brush painting often focuses on one or two simple objects that represent all of nature. The remaining unpainted areas are interpreted as the infinite from which everything comes. The picture space is always carefully balanced and the object or objects are never placed dead center. Traditional western thinking interprets the picture space as a window on reality that if not completely filled seems incomplete. Yet within many examples of western drawing the image may not be complete. The drawing may be only a sketch, a first impression or first thought that will be developed further at a later time. Or, as in the case of many drawings by Rembrandt, the sketch creates it own completion through the power of suggestion. The space in which figures exist, though not delineated, is felt by the viewer. Details, that in a drawing by Ingres would never be left out, in Rembrandt may be superfluous to the human gesture or psychological connection between figures. These emotional ideas are readily communicated to the viewer through the artist's masterful use of line.
Drawings by the Italian sculptor Giacometti are often graphic parallels of his straightforward and reductionist sculptural vocabulary. The lines accumulate like so many strands of wire and create a mass of tone on the page that gives a powerful sense of spatial presence and physicality concentrated within a central figure. Some of Giacometti's drawings create the sense of exploration as the meandering line wanders through the picture space announcing its (the line's) presence while simultaneously creating a specifically defined space: the corner of a room with table and chairs, bottles sitting atop a table, a figure sitting in a chair. The delightfully loose and playful drawings belie the seriousness of the observation and thought behind them.
The simplicity of gesture wedded to the ability to make the gesture express thought or emotion is at the heart of much artistic creation. This is especially pleasing when the carrier of the gesture is line, as in the case of drawing. But that special line that hovers between its own assertion of power and grace and whatever image or emotion or idea it may represent, that elusive expression of both truth and beauty, that ambiguous arc through space that leaves its trail like some mysterious unseen particle of nature revealed only by its passing – that is a fine line indeed.
Posted on 10/14/2010 8:56:06 PM
By Donald Fox
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There was a time, perhaps, when where an artist originated had special relevance for the work that followed. The same could be said of the master from whom he or she may have learned the craft. Some artists, however, chose to expose themselves to particular influences foreign to place of birth, including culture or country. Today, in the age of the internet and instant messaging, so many avenues of influence abound that it seems an effort in futility to trace the logic of development. Schools and styles shift as quickly as Texas weather. Nevertheless, I was born in Charleston, South Carolina, and grew up in North Carolina, but I've lived in Texas longer than I did in either of the Carolinas. My work, which is neither regional nor particularly Southern, has moved slowly through the years like a giant pendulum from realism to abstraction and back to realism. And yet, I easily see the thread that runs through all of it like a massive rope anchoring a freighter to a dock. The teachers, artists (writers, playwrights, painters, sculptors, dancers, designers, musicians), fellow students, neighbors, and anonymous people I encountered here and abroad all taught me something that has found its way into my painting.
First and foremost, though, I deeply believe that artists, all artists, are self-taught. The vision comes from within. No technique, particular brush, brand of paint, or quality of canvas is going to transform a frog into a prince. This doesn't mean, of course, that any of us don't learn skills that help us to express our visions. The greatest skill, however, will never substitute for insight. The most I ever learned about painting from a teacher I learned from a sculptor who worked in plaster. He dealt with form and volume. Color was of no interest to him. Yet he taught me something intangible about perception, and every time I notice the subtle shift in light on a surface or see the magical swirl of colors stirred on my palette I can still hear the ghost of Peter Agostini whispering in my ear – “This moves that way, this moves around here, and that holds them in relationship.” The painter Bert Carpenter once told me, “You are your own best teacher. Look critically at what you do and what you have done.”
When I left North Carolina and moved to Houston in the late seventies, I soon encountered a huge exhibit of paintings by Cezanne at the MFAH. Even though I had completed my master's degree in studio arts and could recount a reasonably coherent arc of painting from Lascaux to Rothko, my real education in painting began with that show. What I didn't do was run to my studio and paint like Cezanne. My paintings quickly shifted to abstract images where I explored light and form in an intellectual inner landscape perhaps like a musician might do if he's exploring the mystery of the sounds that emerge from his instrument. Through the years, I saw more connection – correspondences, if you will – between colors observed every day wherever I happened to be and colors as I had attempted to manipulate them on my palette. So I began to paint the world around me again. Now, even though my paintings have recognizable images and thematically they may be linked to painters like Hopper, Sloan, or Hawthorne (and them to Cezanne, Degas, Corot, Chardin, etc.), my experience of my paintings is as abstractions – explorations of colored light observed, ingested, reconstituted, and reconstructed. The images, ultimately, are excuses for playing with color. It is my vision that, hopefully, imbues them with metaphorical or symbolical meaning, for all art - not being science - is interpretive. How do we interpret except through metaphor?
Posted on 10/12/2010 8:17:50 PM
By Donald Fox
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When I was a kid, I spent many hours drawing all kinds of things. At the age of five or six I was befriended by an older boy down the street who showed me several small paintings that he'd done in an after school class at a community center. I was really excited by the color and texture of the oil paints. I'd never seen anything like that before. I tried to talk to my dad about me going to the classes too, but he thought I was too young. Besides, art wasn't a serious venture. My dad had been trained as an electrician and a pilot, and he was very practical. Still, I continued to draw and played sometimes with paint by number sets. These, though, never quite turned out like the pictures on the boxes. My colors had a way of mixing themselves on the canvas board in interesting ways.
For many years Saturday mornings were spent in the public library among the art books. I found the most amazing pictures of all sorts of things. A painting didn't have to be just a picture of a horse or a dog or a pot of flowers. In middle school I answered an ad for a correspondence art school. They responded by sending someone to our house. He looked at other things I had done. Then he showed me pictures by students that had actually scored lower than me on the drawing test. Maybe he was just trying to fill his quota, but he seemed genuinely encouraging and told me that whether I joined their school or not I should definitely continue drawing and painting. My dad thought it was a scam and discouraged me. Besides, art isn't very practical.
That was the line I often heard. Since I was also good at math and science, I later applied to and was accepted to engineering school. I even spent several summers working for local engineers as part of a survey team. I also continued to draw and paint. As it drew closer to time to leave for college, I felt increasingly uneasy about my career choice. I didn't go to the state university; instead I enrolled at the local community college. Wonderful teachers in art and literature opened my eyes to new possibilities. I breezed through the math and science requirements (I'd done most of that in high school) and poured my energy into the world of the arts. I met my first real working artist, Claude Howell, and learned about discipline and consistency in developing one's creative abilities. I was one of very few students that helped him on a mural project for the Brunswick County Historical Museum. I saw first hand the massive amount of study in the form of writing and drawing that were preparations for this and other projects large and small.
A passion for writing grew alongside my passion for painting. Writing became a tool for learning and a way to deepen my thoughts and understanding. Unfortunately, that internalized parental voice kept nagging about practicality. It was a distraction but not a deterrent. I've seen, though, the results of those negative thoughts that might denigrate accomplishments or second guess an opportunity. While I might have been discouraged, I didn't give up. The work was its own reward, and I'd also been building my support group of creative thinkers. I quickly realized that a path is a journey filled with experiences and opportunities for learning and growth. Whatever unexpected twists or turns my path might take, I always managed to learn some creative lesson that could be channeled back into my work. And, so what if my path was not the same as that of others? Even the most casual look at the lives of the great painters and other artists will reveal amazing diversity, not only in their output but also in how they lived and conducted their lives.
Ultimately, and I was told this by one of my professors in graduate school though it took me a while to make it my own, it doesn't matter what others think. You become your own best critic; you have to in order to improve and grow. As for that internalized voice that most of us carry around, just say, “Thanks, but no thanks. I've got work to do.”
Posted on 10/10/2010 7:52:34 PM
By Donald Fox
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An odd paradox exists for the painter in today's world. Of course this was true in the past as well but in less complex form. The paradox is that the artist lives to create something for which there is no immediate need and which has little intrinsic value. The value is created after the fact when the creation is appreciated. For those close to the arts, artists and art lovers alike, there is no question about the value and importance of art. In the marketplace that value can grow exponentially. Yet, one could, with little effort, enjoy art every day simply by visiting galleries, art shows, museums, or public spaces where art resides and never purchase a single painting or drawing. One can go online and visit the museums of the world. Most galleries have online adjuncts. More and more artists are creating their own web presence. It is easy to find art and experience it regularly without paying a dime directly to any artist. Fortunately, there are those who do enjoy paying artists, and it is through these various venues that artists and their work are found to the benefit of artist and patron alike.
Because of the long history of collecting, both personal and institutionalized, the artist doesn't have to create the need for the product. It is important, however, for the creative work to be good enough to be desirable. In a real sense, then, the artist does have to make effort to create something of potential value and follow that with getting the work known. Given that, does the artist consciously paint for monetary reward or from some compulsion to creatively express? Does one function to the detriment of the other? Can an artist successfully work some combination of both? It is easy to become frustrated with the challenges of the marketplace. It is also easy to suffer the temptations of society, the difficulties of consistent creative output, or the negative response of an uncaring or hostile audience. Don't challenges abound in any field of endeavor?
The artist will need support outside the studio in order to prosper just as any other businessperson. What sustains the artist internally, though, is that all important connection to source however the artist has defined that for him or her self. Inspiration can come from anywhere; every artist knows this. Strength of character comes not only from suffering. The starving artist cliché of the past is not relevant for the creative spirit. Self-knowledge is the key. The poet Mary Oliver in her poem “Wild Geese” writes,
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Posted on 10/9/2010 7:49:38 PM
By Donald Fox
2 Comments
Temptation is all around us. Ancient spiritual traditions have characterized these in many ways: Satan, the temptress, greed, avarice, the seven deadly sins, overindulgence, hedonism, and so on. Affluent societies often move towards a decadent phase because of losing touch with core values, the defining principles that created abundance to begin with. We can see this in the microcosm as well as the macrocosm.
Why do some individuals succeed when others from the same limited background do not? Largely, it's about mindset – positive focus and seeking possibility. Biologists and naturalists use a phrase, “nature finds a way.” Life seeks life.
The challenges of daily life can seem overwhelming at times. Responding negatively becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. A student once missed the first two weeks of class. When she did finally come, that day she was late. To every assignment thereafter she responded with words like,
“I don't have time for this.”
“I should just quit now. I can't do this.”
“Just give me my F right now.”
When asked if she ever thought positively, she said no. Her life was filled with demands and taking care of others. A single mother, needy family, non-supportive ‘friends,' abusive relationships – the list went on and on. With all of her negativity, it was amazing she had actually chosen to come to school at all. That act, though, suggested that somewhere a positive thought of improvement and betterment existed, yet even this she resisted. Her pattern of negativity ran so deep that she would deny the very thing that could help her. So committed to her own misery and convinced that her life was worse than anyone else's, she would defend it when challenged.
“You're not the only one with problems,” other students would say.
“But they don't work the hours I do,” she'd respond.
“Most students work and have families too,” her classmates pointed out. “They manage to come to class and at least do some work.”
“But they don't have to take care of everybody. I'm so tired of taking care of everybody. I don't have time for anything else.”
“Why are you here, then?” a brave classmate asked.
Here she changed the subject. She felt so abused and pressured in her life that she continued to abuse and pressure herself instead of reaching out to others and building support. She created alienation instead by countering every positive suggestion. Eventually no one wanted to be around her. Consequently, she validated her sense of being abused by others.
What is your self-talk in relation to painting and creating art? How do you respond to the challenges of managing the tasks required to promote yourself? What do you say when a painting doesn't go the way you want it to go? The path of a creative person can be demanding in itself and the learning curve is steep. Feedback is immediate and not always positive. Have you created support for yourself? Do you have even one person that will encourage you when you're down and cheer for you when you achieve? The act of painting may take place in solitary in the studio, but eventually the result will go out into the world. Building support is necessary to get it there.
Posted on 10/8/2010 11:59:32 PM
By Donald Fox
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Painters paint for many reasons. Some say they feel compelled to do so. Others will say they paint because they don't want to do anything else. Probably most, the really serious ones, think deeply about their expression and passion. Many of them write their thoughts and try to express verbally what they are attempting to do philosophically and aesthetically. Painting is more than a pastime or a leisurely pursuit: It is a way of understanding and relating to the world, to life, and the perceived meaning of existence. All of the artists that have had the greatest impact on the history of art were thinkers of the highest order whether they also conveyed their thinking through words or not. We are fortunate to have access to the thoughts of those who did.
I find myself thinking constantly about art and painting. There is rarely a moment of the day when I don't make some observation that can be related to painting, i.e. to the elements of painting: color, shape, form, and light. For many years in my painting I have focused on landscape imagery through which I have explored fundamental interactions between color, shape, and form derived from the perceived contrast between light and dark. Specific subjects have always included places physically visited: Texas, Arizona, California, North and South Carolina and other southern states, Hawaii, Mexico, and several European countries.
More recently I've begun a series of paintings investigating the human element within its self-created landscape. I have a longstanding interest in literature, studied literature as an undergraduate and graduate student, and have taught English and writing for a number of years. I've also published poems, essays, and stories. This interest, along with concern over the many challenges facing contemporary society, has led me to the new series that overall is called Urban Dwellers. Several sub-series present certain thematic elements that serve as metaphorical representations of contrasting elements. Two of these series, Readers and Street People, are of ongoing concern and enable me to make some sense out of the chaos of urban life.
In nature it is easy to see that life is contrast and transmutation; one thing dies to sustain the life of another. Energy is released and recycled in this constant transformational process. We are part of this process and contribute to it consciously and unconsciously every moment of every day, sometimes for good and sometimes for ill. We can call this the human condition, the process of life, the way of nature, the state of the universe, or God's plan. At some level all art touches on this inevitability, embracing it or attempting to deny it. I mention this here because, ultimately, this is what fuels my art. Likely it fuels most artists. Each expresses his/her response to life in a uniquely personal way that often, paradoxically, is universal. My own paintings, whether landscape, figurative, or whatever (I did spend nearly 15 years exploring abstraction), metaphorically represent the dynamic, transient, transformational, numinous, ethereal, perplexing, mysterious experience we call life. I wouldn't want it any other way.
Posted on 10/7/2010 9:46:24 PM
By Donald Fox
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Recently I was shopping at the local hardware store where background music is always playing. Dylan's song “When I Paint My Masterpiece” came on, and I had an epiphany in the light bulb aisle. It was an idea for a book to break through all those barriers to creating the way we were meant to create.
How to Paint Like a Master: Ten Easy (Relatively) Suggestions to Make Your Paintings Whatever You Want Them to Be All They Can Be and More
(Solid advice for those in a hurry)
- 1. Change your name to Leonardo. On second thought, not such a good idea. You'd just be confused with di Caprio and get lots of heated fan mail – very distracting.
- 2. In your best sketchbook write “I am a master painter” one hundred times each day for the next 30 days. According to experts it only takes 30 days to change behavior by changing your mind.
- 3. Sign your paintings in the following manner: Your Name, Master Painter. Sign post-it notes in the same way and stick them on your bathroom mirror, at the head and foot of your bed, to the outside and inside of the refrigerator door, over the airbag sign on the steering wheel of your car, on your cell phone, on your mailbox, at the top left or right of your monitor screen (are you left or right handed?), on all your easels and your paint box, and inside each shoe before you retire at night.
- 4. Tint the final varnish with Van Dyke brown to give your paintings that aged and desirably collectible look.
- 5. Buy every painting video on the market and paint every demo painting at least 10 times.
- 6. Try painting upside down and backwards without looking to really stimulate the right side of your brain.
- 7. Extend all of your brush handles by at least six feet and then stand back and whistler while you work. (Sorry, James.)
- 8. Copy every painting in the Guggenheim Museum or whatever major museum is closest to your home. You can always sell them on ebay.
- 9. Paint your toenails in ten carefully graduated values from white to black every day for the next 365 days or until you can hit the value of toe seven without even looking at toe six or toe eight.
- 10. Finally, make a painting of something that catches your attention each and every day. Paint as if this one work is the crowning achievement of all your artistic endeavors to date. Don't stop to answer the phone, change the cat litter, or write in your blog. Just paint.
Posted on 10/6/2010 5:06:59 PM
By Donald Fox
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What is truth in life experience? Is it only the factual reporting of specific events – no embellishment, no exaggeration, no interpretation? Or, is truth the meaning that the experiencer gives to the circumstance? In the Life of Pi, Yann Martel creates a marvelously engaging if far-fetched story of a shipwrecked boy and a tiger together on a lifeboat. The narrative is so descriptive and detailed that it becomes believable, perhaps until the encounter with the floating island. The bounds of truth seem stretched to breaking, yet the landscape – even though bizarre – takes on a credibility that defies reason. Later, when the entire survival story is recounted to clerks from the company that owns the lost ship, they do not believe the tale filled with wild animals and a carnivorous island. The character, Pi, then spins a tale of deprivation and delirium minus the animals that because of its savagery is ultimately rejected by the clerks. But which, if either, might be the true tale? The question of belief – reality, spirituality, God – is the real question. What do we, each of us, regard as truth? What is the truth of our own existence? What do our stories, myths, and legends reveal about who we are? Don't we often – aren't we often – tempted to believe?
For many years there has been debate between art and science from one perspective or between religion and science from another. Science, supposedly, derives from observation and inquiry, and offers proof based on these. Art often expresses the heart, the inexpressible and unknowable, and through symbol and metaphor makes these things manifest (or at least understandable). Yet the paradoxical questions of existence that are addressed in art are answered only with ambiguity. Something seems to represent something else. Something stands for something else and that idea appeals to our senses of both emotion and logic. Recent scientific theory, despite its rigorous intellectual exercise, appears to lead us to more ambiguity and more metaphor. Light exists as a particle and a wave and can exhibit both qualities simultaneously. String theory metaphorically describes an understanding of reality. Multiple universes coexist. Time is flexible and space immeasurable.
Artistic expression has become so fragmented that it is necessary to identify specifically the type of art being discussed. Realism, for example, has a long tradition in the history of painting. Yet historically realism has manifested in radically different schools of thought and depiction. Compare Renaissance painting with Classicism or Romanticism or Impressionism or Expressionism or Photo-realism. An artist claiming to be a realist painter could fall into any one of these categories or inhabit some hybrid form that combines elements of two or more of these. A viewer might reject an impressionistic painting as too sketchy and gravitate to a painting that looks more like a photograph – in other words, choose clarity and order over evanescence. A painter may approach a painting by first creating a solid, well-defined drawing and further develop that with color to strengthen the illusion of painted reality. Another painter may observe patches of light and dark, bits of color, and by arranging colored strokes proximal to each other ‘allow' an image to emerge. The two painters may or may not arrive at the same place given each one's comfort level with finish (rough or polished).
That we observe the world around us is a given. How carefully we observe and for what purpose obviously impact the result of the observation. How we, as painters, make use of our observations will depend on personality, experience, training, understanding, bias, and imagination. How marvelous that artistic expression allows for so much diversity.
Posted on 10/4/2010 10:44:39 PM
By Donald Fox
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The adjective creative, and more often its noun form creativity, are bandied about these days much like some elixir of youth or fixer of humdrum lives. People get in touch with their creative side or find their inner artist and become expressive as a means to redefining self. In fact, there is big business in the search for meaning in life. All that is okay, especially if in whatever process one involves him or her self, he or she becomes a better person. What I do find troubling is the all too often posturing that can follow such a process of new creative expression. Often times the poseur isn't even aware of the pseudo persona; too much attention is being paid to the glamour of newly created ‘work.' Read a book, watch a TV show or educational video, take a few classes, and call yourself an artist. That's okay isn't it? Everybody's an artist somewhere deep inside.
Well, maybe everyone can do some kind of expressive exercise – take up writing, painting, music, dance, or something. But is that all it takes to be an artist? I don't think so. One of my earliest teachers, a very successful “regional” painter, Claude Howell, had been studying, developing, and plying his painting craft for nearly thirty years when I met him. He did not call himself an artist; he always referred to himself as a painter. He felt that the title artist might be bestowed some time in the distant future. Claude was old school. He followed the path of many artists before him. He traveled the world to study the works of masters in major museums. He worked in ateliers, hung out on the left bank, kept voluminous sketchbooks and notebooks of his studies and travels. He never went to college or formal art school but became head of an art department in his later years. He had many successful shows locally in North Carolina and in New York, and he exhibited in Europe. He used to joke about becoming part of the jet set. Even then, he still only called himself a painter. His focus was always on developing his craft and expressing his vision. The vision developed over many years of exploration and cultivation. He taught others by example.
There is a danger in contemporary culture to be sidetracked by the cachet of notoriety, to assume a label without a noteworthy product on which to place it. Maybe we can blame the Dadaists for proclaiming art to be anything the artist says it is, but who proclaims the artist? Isn't that the next step? I'm an artist because I say so. What about the dedication to process? Maybe we all do have a creative side that desires to be expressed. That's all well and good. How many ‘artists,' however, are known for only one work? Isn't it consistency that places the artist into that rarefied realm? I don't mean deprivation or starvation or other clichés that may float around the artistic realm. I'm talking about singleness of purpose and time spent intently studying the craft of one's aspiration.
Follow your passion certainly. Develop your skills and never stop the learning process. Explore, question, absorb, and observe; keep moving forward and don't be in such a rush to be recognized. Art has nothing to do with instant gratification.
Posted on 10/2/2010 12:01:51 AM
By Donald Fox
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Today I visited the Museum of Fine Arts in Houston specifically to see the current exhibit of German Impressionism that focuses on three artists: Max Liebermann, Lovis Corinth, and Max Slevogt. My exposure to these painters has been limited at best - a few paintings seen in scattered museums through the years or a few reproductions in art history texts. Later I'll write more about specific impressions of the exhibit. One thought, though, that occurred to me more than once as I walked through the galleries is how often we tend to compartmentalize the experience of art, especially work from the past. Impressionism, expressionism, surrealism and other terms become buzz words that may end up limiting the direct experience of the art rather than illuminating something about the artistic expression and intent. Museums, of course, generally function as educational institutions and as such put exhibits into some context. This usually means adding some personal information about the artist or linking his/her work to the period in which he/she worked - schools, aesthetic philosophy, notable peers, and so on. All of that creates a neat historical understanding (or the beginning of it) for the general museum goer. The real experience, though, I think, comes when standing before any given work. Now it's just me (or you) and the work itself. The energy that comes through all those wonderful qualities of oil on canvas (or whatever medium) is right now. It makes no difference that the work was done 100 years ago or five minutes ago. The emotions and thoughts I experience are my own, but they are stirred by the vision before me. The empathic spirit that art imparts makes the old new and in a constant state of renewal. It's almost as if time stops. The object is fresh and new and now. Even when what is represented is bound by time - period clothing, activities, places that no longer exist - the empathic response to shared human experience is paramount. As a painter, I feel the presence of the painter behind the painting. I am moved and I am grateful for the shared artistic experience that has brought us together even though this may be a one way conversation. Now it becomes my responsibility to carry it forward in whatever ways I can.
