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.”
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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. |
I Heart Art
I do! I make it, sell it, think about it, look at it, read about it, and (sometimes) I write about it. Join my mailing list, and you'll receive my brief--promise--messages about new work, shows, events, and a little inspiration. Probably a picture of my dog, too. Archives
April 2023
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