Aftermath

 "Talk of Change"       Mixed Media         36" x 36"

         Before East Bay Open Studios 2015, I posted a short essay in LinkedIn about the preparation that goes into those events. So now, I thought I should try to give another glimpse at what happens after Open Studios.

The thing is, while the aftermath has some commonalities, variations are far greater. For example, a person who sold well, might have a sense of self-esteem, and even euphoria. Putting everything away, reorganizing work and materials is an opportunity to remember the events with pleasure. However, a person who sold nothing is fraught with questions. What could I have done better? Marketing? Location? Better image in the catalog? Not enough people reached? Then there are the deeper questions about the work itself. That is a deeply personal odyssey that leads an artist to the mirror, if only symbolically speaking.

            We have to be honest about the variety of art forms available during Open Studio Events. There are decorative arts, utilitarian arts, and then that thing that is called “fine art”. Fine Art exists for itself, and may intend to stir the soul and/or intellect. That type of art is difficult to sell; harder to sell than a bar of chocolate, though the two can sometimes deliver the same experience. My work is in that bracket.

            So from my perspective, Open Studios is always a financial gamble. But it is also a mental, even a spiritual, gamble. Once a lady who’d been standing silently looking at one of my paintings with her husband, came right up to it. I wondered if she was going to ask me to explain a certain section, or comment on the emotion it had stirred. Instead, she opened her purse and pulled out a piece of fabric and held it next to the painting. “Whaddaya think?” she asked her husband. He squinted his eyes and opened his mouth (as if both gestures helped him to see better). “Gnah,” he said slowly, “I don’t think it’s gonna do.” She shrugged, put the fabric back into her purse, and joined him on his way to the next exhibitor.

            I’ve often asked myself what I’d have done if the painting had matched the sofa. Would I have sold it to them? I still don’t know the answer for sure, but I’d like to think I would not. If I were to do such a thing, I imagine myself laying awake at night like a parent who has sent their child off to military school. What was I thinking? How could I have done that? How can I get him back?

            Since the fabric-in-the-purse lady I have toughened up a lot. I’m ready for anything and nothing, and I get both. Before caring about whether or not someone is going to buy my work, honestly, I hope that there is some unspoken or ineffable transmission of humanness. I know that it may not be what I intended, if I intended something, but I do hope for communication of a meta-message, or some type of transcendent experience; something beyond thought, maybe even beyond chocolate.

            When I came home after two weekends sitting in a beautiful garage waiting to engage with strangers in front of pieces of my work for seven hours a day, feeling pretty tired. I hadn’t sold anything, so I could have felt depressed. But as I said, I’m tougher than that now, so I felt philosophical. I am certain about my work, certain that it is genuine and provocative and mysterious. I reflected on the interactions I’d had, and a number of them had been delightful and interesting. I was pleased to have younger artists ask about materials, and I was moved by adults who looked deeply at the work and walked away nodding their head. “Nice work,” is all I had to hear from them. 

            But this week the Open Studios experience continued to evolve when I got a phone call from a young woman who’d seen a photo of a piece in one of my portfolios, and expressed an interest in seeing the real thing. “Sure,” I said, “give me a call and you can come to the studio.” Honestly, I didn’t count on hearing from her again (people say a lot of things they don’t mean). So when she called, I was very impressed. And today, as I swept the studio floor in preparation for her visit, I told myself not to get my hopes up because though the presence of a piece usually delivers more than its photo, it’s possible the piece will look completely different from the image she went away with. She may not get the same feeling she got from the photo.

            So the hour came, and she walked in. The piece was on the easel, and I watched her face. Big, beautiful smile. “Oh,” she said, “it’s even better than the photo.” I took a deep breath, and allowed myself to enjoy watching a person receive that transcendent je ne sais quoi. She described a bit about the feeling it gave her, and why it was so significant at this moment in her life. It was the thing one hopes for: a meeting of the art, the artist, and the viewer at a deeply conscious oasis of being.

            Now this might surprise you: what made the sale sweeter was that she didn’t have a job, and she didn’t have the money. But the piece was so important to her that she hoped she could buy it in payments. When a person stretches financially to own your work, you know you’ve found it a good home. Fifty dollars a month may not make a big addition to my income, but I know I will sleep very well.

The key to finding happiness

 The ability to forgive oneself is the key to making art, 

and is possibly the key to finding any semblance of happiness in life. 

                                                                                Ann Patchett

The first time I read these words, tears welled up in my eyes. How brave and brilliant of Ann Patchett to name the connection between forgiveness and art making.

Art is about daring. Consequently, it is a road strewn with the rubble of mistakes. Whether big or small, our errors empower our insights. Thomas Edison, at the time when he was working on the invention of the electric light bulb, was challenged by someone criticizing him, saying he should admit that he’d failed to accomplish what he set out to do. Edison famously answered, “ I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work.”

            Ten thousand attempts! Not only did he forgive himself for guessing wrong and using up precious time, rent money, the salary of his assistant, and the cost of materials, he understood that each failure was an increase in his knowledge. That single insight was ultimately what led to his success. Not only did he forgive himself for not succeeding each time, he made each failure an integral part of success.

In art, there is more destruction than construction. Most people don’t understand that. Whether you are learning to draw the human figure, or sculpt a piece of wood without cracking it, you are going to make some really ugly things. In learning to draw the human figure, for example, we cannot even count the number of errors made on the way to learning how to do it successfully. Your subject is a structure of bones and organs covered with muscles, tendons, ligaments, fat and flesh. And it’s your aim to make a drawing that looks like a person whose presence neatly defies the blood driven complexity of its being. In order to do that, you have to make at least a thousand bad drawings. You have to get it wrong over and over again, in order to get it right. The same is true in writing, music, dance, musicianship, and all creative endeavors, including technical and industrial design (as per the genius of Edison).

            Knowing the requirements of art or life does not, however, remove the emotions, the psychological nagging, or the haunting voices of teachers or relatives who derided you for your vision and desire to be “an artist” or “a person”. That’s when Anne Patchett’s words are so important. Forgive yourself for every crumpled piece of paper, for every deleted sentence, for every off note. And don’t forget that the word life is interchangeable with the word art in the quotation. Remember Edison, and realize that every failure is part of success. You may lose a job, or a lover. When you are committed to a vision, there will be times when you feel alienated from others, and sometimes even alienated from the easy life you think others are living. You may have days when you question the ambitions that drive you, but those are the days when you must remember the words of Anne Patchett. Forgive yourself. Take yourself out for a treat or give yourself a day off.        

           In my experience, even if I try to push myself away from the frustration of the creative process, before I realize it, my mind is on it again. A new insight about the story I’m writing comes to me just before I go to sleep, or I see in my mind’s eye a shift in the painting waiting on the easel. Then, I’m back at it, forgiving the process, and forgetting the last disappointment. You are not alone. Life is a creative process, so even people who do not name their art form are going through the cycles of trial, error, frustration and forgiveness. You are surrounded by fellow travelers.

* The painting above is titled "In Your Love I Find My Home" 12" x 12", 2014

Accepting Rejection/Rejecting Acceptance

When I read the Martian Chronicles, I did it thinking that it is one of the most famous books in the English language, so I better have read it. It was an imperative undertaking rather than an anticipated delight. That attitude lasted half way through the first page, which is so beautifully written that I fell in love with Ray Bradbury right then.

Many people don’t know that aside from his brilliant science fiction works (like The Martian Chronicles and Farenheit 451) Bradbury also wrote a good deal about writing, and I’ve always found his words inspiring. Today I came across a quote from him that made me stop and think. Talking about the creative life, he said,

“You have to know how to accept rejection and reject acceptance.”

The quote put me in mind of my aesthetic journey as artist and teacher. I was a very unsophisticated art student from a blue collar family. I lacked the understanding needed to determine good work from bad work, or art from saccharin imagery. My instructors had the difficult task of teaching me that while reproducing images resembling greeting card illustrations might win praise from family, such work would prevent me from becoming an artist. I remember some embarrassing moments, but I still consider that to have been one of the most important lessons of my life. Not only could I not seek praise from my family, I had to question anything that elicited praise. If my mother said, “Oh, that’s pretty”, I knew it wasn’t art.

I didn’t stop wanting praise, of course, I just shifted the target audience. Eventually, (and this took a couple of years) when I looked at my work, I could see the influence of certain teachers, and I knew then that the work wasn’t completely mine because at its core was my desire to receive praise. It didn’t matter that the source of that praise was a sophisticated professor, I had to reach a place where I rejected that acceptance, too.

Even today, I see the seesaw effect of outside praise and acceptance in my work and that of my students. Most of us need acknowledgement, but it must come with mutual respect and without coercive ideological or emotional pressure. I love dialog with colleagues whose work, knowledge, and understanding stems from a committed period of personal struggle. I know they’ll be as tough in their evaluation of my work, as they are in theirs. I belong to a crit group where everyone’s work is different. One person creates work with cut paper elements, one is a figurative artist, one focuses on landscapes in watercolors, and another is a sculptor working in clay. Our dialog is rooted in knowledge, experience, and mutual respect. We ask important questions and make unique observations.

If I submit work to a gallery, and it is rejected, I’m stuck in the first half of Bradbury’s statement: accepting rejection. I always hope to learn something from rejection, but frankly, it’s been most valuable to know that years of accumulated rejections have proved my undying commitment to the work. Reading Bradbury, in fact, I realized that I accept rejection so much that I presume it, and frequently stop myself from submitting work. That assures me that I’m creating truthfully without influence from the saleable marketplace, but, obviously, I’m also protecting myself from more rejection. (Not something I’m proud of.)

Creative people are tightrope walkers, constantly fighting to stay in balance, living in the real world, and true to ourselves. I’d love to hear how Bradbury’s quote resonated in your life.

           *My painting above is titled:     "Whisper"     24" x 24" Acrylic on Canvas © 2005

On Being Interviewed

Unity minister, Maggie Oman Shannon has an interesting radio show that airs at 4 p.m. (Pacific) each Wednesday.  (Go to Unity.fm for a whole schedule of interesting programming). On March 18th you can hear my interview with Maggie.
    The preparation for an interview is pretty interesting. Some part of me felt that I should reread something or do some kind of homework. I listened to Maggie's other interviews, and even answered for myself some of the questions she asked the other guest. I went to my copy of Freeing the Creative Spirit, knowing she'd ask something about it. Going through the pages, I realized how well I still knew that material and the layout of the subjects covered. I was glad to see that I still felt good about something I'd written in the 1990's.
    Putting away all the other research possibilities, I came to realize that I am the subject, and I've been researching me my entire life. Creativity and the pursuit of an artful life is no longer a separate topic. I realized that habit in me to prepare, and at least in this case, living my life was all the homework I needed to do. That realization gave me a warm sense of integrity, in the sense that everything is integrated. What I do is a dynamic of who I am. Who I am is at the root of the work I do.
     Being interviewed is a very educational thing. I recommend it for everyone.
     I suggest setting up a series of interviews that you do, in a kind of Round Robin, with your friends. Each of you is responsible for your questions, so no one knows exactly what questions will come at you. Be mindful of the whole process. Write down your reflections of how it felt to be the interviewer. What did you learn? How did it feel. Then write your reflections about being interviewed. Were there any surprises?
     Hope you listen to my interview. Even if you miss it on the 18th, it is available on the website.
I'd love to hear responses to the interview and to the Round Robin, or however you design your personal interviews.

A Short Short Story

As this is National Women's Month, and I started Women Write Now! to strengthen the voices of women where I live, it is my pleasure to post here a short short story by Ms. Kaye Williams, a member of my writing circle.

Dapper Cat

by Kaye Williams
(c) 2015

      James’ first job in Chicago was as a maintenance man for the housing authority, he was assigned to a building on West Lake Street, an apartment for him and Naomi, his wife, came with the position. They were both gamblers, James liked dominos and Naomi preferred black jack.  Soon after moving in, they began inviting their neighbors over for gambling parties.

     People started showing up to their small, cluttered and dusty apartment after work on Fridays.  Most everyone was from Mississippi, they all talked and laughed loudly, mostly about an ole mule and the girl or the guy they left behind when they jumped on the train bound for Chicago.  They also spoke regularly about the house they grew up in, where they heard gospel songs hummed throughout the day and at night they listened to the tunes of bluesmen such as Muddy Waters. Both sounds found their way to Chicago, it was the Mississippi blues that was always playing at James and Naomi’s casino parties.

     Among the regulars were Doris and Lindsey.  Doris, a beauty queen in her own right, had the looks to be a cover girl on a widely circulated fashion magazine.  Her shoulder length light brown hair was always freshly pressed and tightly curled. Her clothes flattered her, she wore see through blouses with a lace slip and bra clearly visible underneath, and a nice dark skirt, all ways worn much shorter than a church going woman.  She carried herself as though she was available, even asking for it, which is why she showed up at James and Naomi’s.  Lindsey, James’ nephew, always brought the same girl with him. They crammed into the high back chair in the corner, allowing the casino activity to go on without them.

     One Friday night, a tall, thin, dapper “cat” strolled in, capturing everyone’s attention instantly.  An obvious silence came quickly upon the apartment, as Chester, made his way through the small crowd of new friends.  Wearing a fedora, tipped to the right, he stood still once he reached the table.

     James took control of the game, ordered his friend, Eddie, up from the table and motioned for Chester to sit down.  Chester placed his hat on the table before taking the seat.  The regulars knew the scheme as James dealt from a deck that he kept in a drawer next to the table.  The pace picked up, the normal chatter resumed.  Chester recognized that everyone was suspicious of him, his palms started to sweat.  He abruptly asked for a quick bathroom break.  This was an old trick, James along with everyone else at the table had pulled this one before.  They all pulled their guns and followed Chester.   Chester grabbed the bathroom door, opening it, took two steps in and in a single motion, raised the window and jumped.

     The game was over, James claimed the hat as his own, and they all spent the next several hours laughing, to the break of day!