Hmmm...April 2010. Has it really been this long since I put fingers to keyboard and posted to my blog? Guess so...
My new series of work, the first I've actually completed in 5 years, is now sitting on the dinning table. The pieces are as pristine as they will ever be, in the stage of life before they are purchased, worn, worn. They have been in this unblemished state for 2 weeks; I cannot for the life of me think of what comes next.
As one who struggles constantly with creative confidence (or lack there of), the act of finishing an entire body of work is nothing short of wrenching - a labor of exhausting uncertainty that now leaves me with 6 new creations. And I just can't stop looking at them. I just can't believe these the pieces came from me, and I have no idea what their futures will hold.
I could take my chances at a regional art fair, selling them to the first taker willing to pay my asking price. Or I could put more time and more money into them with professional photographs and try to hit the beauty pageant circuit of galleries, exhibitions, and publications. Or I could keep them all for myself and protect them from the world.
It just seems like such an overwhelming dilemma, this next step, so I think I'll just sit at the dinning table for a little longer...
Showing posts with label creativity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creativity. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Dude, Where's My Muse?
I recently picked up Julia Cameron's 'The Artist's Way' again. Why? Because I am blocked, totally blocked. Yes, I'm supposed to be an artist and I haven't produced one piece of work in 7 months. Whew! Felt good to get that off my chest!
While working the 'The Artist's Way' program (a series of exercises that make creativity a regular part of life), things are bound to come up. As Cameron describes it, there are stages of giddiness, anger, resistance, sorrow, and, if you finish, eventual rebirth into a more creative and whole person. I am scared of this. I am scared that this will change my life and I will have more creativity, produce work, express myself, and in doing so, radically change the life-long frustrated-artist paradigm that has given me addictive highs and lows for as long as I can remember. I am afraid, crazy as it sounds, that this will be my Marxist Utopian end of history - the fruition of my dreams heralding the terminus of my existence.
But that approach is not sustainable, so I'm attempting what Cameron refers to as a creative recovery - making the spirit whole again by letting creativity flow uninhibited. It's no easy task. As with any type of recovery, this one won't be linear, simple, or comfortable. However, unlike recovery from substances from which you withdraw, creative recovery means withdrawing to yourself, excavating dreams buried under perceptions of a harsh, flat, critical reality that says, "You're not good enough!" "No one takes art seriously!" "It's too late!" "I'm just not a creative person." "If I can't be Van Gogh, what's the point?"
I find it unbearably frustrating to call myself an artist but fail to make art of any kind. This block can not win; the longer my silver sheets, canvas, clay, pens, and brushes sit idle, the worse I feel. But it's more than the physical media; the longer my brain sits idle, the worse I feel. I hope that in my little quest to unblock I can not only produce more work, but get this blog updated with some regularity. So for now it's back to the 3 R's - reread, regroup, resume.
While working the 'The Artist's Way' program (a series of exercises that make creativity a regular part of life), things are bound to come up. As Cameron describes it, there are stages of giddiness, anger, resistance, sorrow, and, if you finish, eventual rebirth into a more creative and whole person. I am scared of this. I am scared that this will change my life and I will have more creativity, produce work, express myself, and in doing so, radically change the life-long frustrated-artist paradigm that has given me addictive highs and lows for as long as I can remember. I am afraid, crazy as it sounds, that this will be my Marxist Utopian end of history - the fruition of my dreams heralding the terminus of my existence.
But that approach is not sustainable, so I'm attempting what Cameron refers to as a creative recovery - making the spirit whole again by letting creativity flow uninhibited. It's no easy task. As with any type of recovery, this one won't be linear, simple, or comfortable. However, unlike recovery from substances from which you withdraw, creative recovery means withdrawing to yourself, excavating dreams buried under perceptions of a harsh, flat, critical reality that says, "You're not good enough!" "No one takes art seriously!" "It's too late!" "I'm just not a creative person." "If I can't be Van Gogh, what's the point?"
I find it unbearably frustrating to call myself an artist but fail to make art of any kind. This block can not win; the longer my silver sheets, canvas, clay, pens, and brushes sit idle, the worse I feel. But it's more than the physical media; the longer my brain sits idle, the worse I feel. I hope that in my little quest to unblock I can not only produce more work, but get this blog updated with some regularity. So for now it's back to the 3 R's - reread, regroup, resume.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Art & I Go Way Back
I was raised by artists, around artists, in a community suffused with artists. Mom, a multi-talented illustrator and writer, and Dad, a skilled orator and woodworker, believed it was best to make things by hand, whether a gift, a meal, or the house in which they raised me. As a family, we'd find art in seemingly the most mundane things - a burst pipe, beer bottle labels, the doorway of the hall closet.
Despite a creative upbringing, I was a frustrated artist, dabbling with various media but never feeling satisfied with the results. I was the kid who never wanted to claim my creations in class, comparing them to the far superior work of those around me. That is, until I met metal. We just clicked the material making sense sense to both my hands and my aesthetic.
I have heard painters describe colors flowing from their brushes, and potters seeing master pieces in lumps of clay. The first time I sparked up an acetylene torch and put heat to metal, vast and infinite possibilities opened up. That metal goes from liquid to solid in an instant, that it can be pulled and stretched with a simple hammer, that its surface color can be changed with heat and chemicals, means there is so much more to a flat piece of silver than a cursory first glance would ever indicate. Even though the silly little copper brooch I produced was far from quality work, the act of its creation felt amazing.
For me, metal is the thing that's stuck. Through years of job and relationship changes, interstate moves, and major life events, it is the one thing I always return to, continue to be thrilled by, and feel the most passion for. 17 years on, my skills are still developing and my design sense maturing. The one constant, however, is the happiness I get unpacking my Rio Grande box and holding those flat sheets, rolls of wire, lengths of tubing, those infinite possibilities, in my hands, visualizing what they will become and how much fun I'm going to have in the process.
Despite a creative upbringing, I was a frustrated artist, dabbling with various media but never feeling satisfied with the results. I was the kid who never wanted to claim my creations in class, comparing them to the far superior work of those around me. That is, until I met metal. We just clicked the material making sense sense to both my hands and my aesthetic.
I have heard painters describe colors flowing from their brushes, and potters seeing master pieces in lumps of clay. The first time I sparked up an acetylene torch and put heat to metal, vast and infinite possibilities opened up. That metal goes from liquid to solid in an instant, that it can be pulled and stretched with a simple hammer, that its surface color can be changed with heat and chemicals, means there is so much more to a flat piece of silver than a cursory first glance would ever indicate. Even though the silly little copper brooch I produced was far from quality work, the act of its creation felt amazing.
For me, metal is the thing that's stuck. Through years of job and relationship changes, interstate moves, and major life events, it is the one thing I always return to, continue to be thrilled by, and feel the most passion for. 17 years on, my skills are still developing and my design sense maturing. The one constant, however, is the happiness I get unpacking my Rio Grande box and holding those flat sheets, rolls of wire, lengths of tubing, those infinite possibilities, in my hands, visualizing what they will become and how much fun I'm going to have in the process.
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