I told an acquaintance that I had been painting this summer in preparation for an art fair this month. His response surprised me: “I prefer art that is painted from the heart.” His implication didn’t register with me for a moment when I said, “Me, too.” He went on to ask me if I thought artists need to make money. I said, “Everyone needs to make money.” We softly debated (we were at a child’s birthday party, after all) and parted still on good terms, but the conversation had me thinking that more people than I think still have a mythic idea about what it is to be an artist.
Every single person who paints/sculpts/draws/builds/etc. has a hard time calling herself an artist because of how loaded with history and drama the word is. I read that my favorite living artist, Wayne Thiebaud, never liked the word because he doesn’t think he deserves the same title given to the great Rembrandt. (He prefers being called a painter.) I like “painter,” too—it’s specific—but it’s time for artists and nonartists to get over the old, old, artist legends that still dominate public opinion.
I listened to a funny and spot-on podcast episode called “Kill the Genius” (Art Opening(s), May 24, 2018) with Courtney Jordan and Samantha Sanders. They compiled a list of four types of art genius archetypes that hold back the average person from understanding that it is people like them—average—who make art. The two hosts tore apart the list by getting to the heart of each legend. It was inspiring. I’m not going to say Michelangelo was just like me, but that man went to great lengths to control his image, too. AND, he wanted to get paid. And moreover, he knew that the former would influence the latter. $$$$$$
Art and Fear: Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking
David Bayles and Ted Orland
At the same time that I started painting again, I started re-reading my art books. I was looking for a more specific vocabulary to think (and eventually talk) about my artmaking in this new phase of work. While I still love a good exhibition catalog, I’ve also moseyed into another section of the bookstore. I finally picked up a book I’ve heard about many times called Art and Fear (1993). It was in the self-help section.
This little book helped myself think about the cold, hard truths of being an artmaker. Three years in as a (nearly) full-time painter, I see how difficult it is to sustain an artist’s lifestyle. It’s lonely. No one cares about most of what I make (I show only what’s decent, which is a small percentage). I am solely responsible for every aspect of the job. No colleagues, no clients (some when I take commissions), no vendors. No feedback. No hum, buzz, energy found in a shared space. It was helpful to have these authors verbalize this reality so that I can try to verbalize my response to it. This book has the greatest compilation of Dose-of-Reality quotes. A few of my favorites:
“Art is hard because you have to keep after it so consistently. On so many different fronts. For so little external reward.”
“If you think good work is synonymous with perfect work, you are headed for big trouble. Art is human, error is human. Inevitably, your work will be flawed. . . To invite perfection is to invite paralysis.”
“In fact, there is no good reason why others should care about most of any one artist’s work. The function of the overwhelming majority of your artwork is simply to teach you how to make the small fraction of it that soars.”
“There is no clearer waste of psychic energy than worrying about how much talent you have. . . Talent may get someone off the starting blocks faster, but without a sense of direction or a goal, it won’t count for much.”
“Until your ship comes in, the only people who will really care about your work are those who care about you personally. Those close to you know that making the work is essential to your well being. They will always care about your work, if not because it is great, then because it is yours—and that is something to be genuinely thankful for.”
Someone recently asked me about making a custom painting from a favorite photograph. It was a great photograph; that is, it was so great, that I worried a painting of it wouldn’t make it a better picture. Thinking long and deep about how to respond to the person, I had about three different trains of thought and decided it would be a good idea to write them down, as well as my response, to use as a guideline when talking to other potential clients about commissioned paintings.
At the advent of photography (stay with me), painters were afraid photography would be the end of the painting business. A couple decades later, the very modern Henri Matisse (work pictured above) replied to a subject who didn’t like his painting, “You want it to look like you? Take a photograph!” Now, no one would ever categorize Mr. Matisse a realist, but his point is important for all types of painters. A painting inherently transmutes a subject. That’s a great word that means to change its nature to something better, to elevate the subject on some level. Frankly, I think that’s why all painters paint. We zero in on an element or a feeling and see if we can show why we think it is worth painting.
So then, what makes a painting a good choice instead of a photograph? I summed it up like this: A photograph is right for capturing a moment. A painting is right for enhancing a moment. Is there overlap? Certainly. And there are different styles of photography just as there are painting. And don’t forget mixed media! There are no rules with art and--more important--with what appeals to an individual.
But when it comes to a commission, both the client and the artist have to be happy. Know that when you approach an artist with your request, she may respond to your chosen subject like Edward Hopper did to the entire American southwest, who said it was too beautiful and therefore “unpaintable.”
When I worked at the Art Institute, I wrote some copy for a calendar sold in the museum store featuring cats in art. I wrote that as animals that are asleep more hours than they are awake, cats make great still life subjects. Many times when I walked past my own cat, I’d poke him to make sure he was still breathing.
I’ve painted him a few times, and he’s a favorite subject because of his ability to stay put, yes, but also his shape. Cats have great lines. Pointy ears, tails, joints, whiskers, and chins make great silhouettes, even when they’re curled up on a sofa. A master of capturing all those articulated lines was illustrator Theophile-Alexandre Steinlen (1859-1923). I bought a little book of his studies Steinlen Cats (Dover Art Library 1980) that I turn to when I need a reminder about what makes the animal look distinctly catty.
My dear cat recently passed away. I’ve been flipping through a bunch of pictures of him I had taken for art reference. He’d often fall asleep in a sunbeam, creating great shadows (thank you, Cat!). He could fall asleep on top of anything, making funny juxtapositions with other objects (books, keyboards, stovetop). He’d fall asleep on top of anyone, making endearing pairings of man and animal. I’ll do more paintings of him, I’m sure. He gave me lots of rich source material, lots of love, and he let me dress him up in a bow tie for special occasions. I owe him for all of that.
When I paint on canvas, I paint four out of five sides of that thing. Two related reasons:
1) So that it doesn’t need to be framed. With attention to the sides, it has an extra level of finish that leaves the painting looking complete from every angle. Some people will tape the sides prior to painting to then reveal the clean canvas beneath; others will paint them black or another color. I think that continuing the picture around the sides gives it more dimension, plus it’s a little surprise. Plus, plus, it’s awkward for me to stop painting on an edge. Like, I wouldn’t frost just the top of a cake.
2) In case it does get framed—with trendy floater frames. The edges of the frame don’t touch the sides of the canvas, so you can see them even if there’s just a slight space between canvas and frame. I think it’s still necessary to pay attention to the other four sides of the canvas.
Bottom line: Framing is expensive, and people want more frosting.
Later is what?
After settling into various desk jobs, I always said I'd get back to painting later in life, and later is now. Again means that I tried once before. I decided to write about my painting endeavor, too, as a learning tool, an accountability tool, and to stay sharp in case I have to go back to a desk job. Again.
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