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10 Things to Never Say to a Visual Artist

7/21/2015

I've put together a list of common misconceptions, as well as frustrating, rude, or ignorant comments people often make when you tell them you're an artist.

1. "Why do you make art?"

To keep me out of trouble? Because robbing banks seemed less fun? Sometimes I think the quickest way to tell whether or not your comment is appropriate is to try it with another profession. I've nicknamed this the Doctor-Lawyer-Indian Chief Test, or DLI Test. In other words, would it be appropriate to ask a doctor why they practice? Not really. You could ask them how they got into medicine. But you wouldn't put them on the spot to justify their entire career path in an elevator pitch.

2. What's your inspiration?

When people ask me this I'm really tempted to just say, "Living? Breathing? Being human?" As Chuck Close said, "Inspiration is for amateurs. The rest of us just show up and get to work." While I'm sure there are some exceptions, I really believe the notion of inspiration is a common misnomer. I for one am not moved to go to the studio any more than a real estate agent is moved to sell houses, or a stock broker to analyze the market. Sure, once I get there, I make discoveries and successes and failures and rewards like the rest of us. But the notion that an otherworldly light parts from the heavens moving me to set paint brush to canvas is largely false.

The trend here seems to be that art making is not all that different from other professions, yet it is somehow regarded as both reverential and inferior. All the useless aggrandizement with none of the day-to-day benefits.

3. "Remember me when you're famous!"

Quick: name three living, breathing artists who are actually a household name. You have 10 seconds.

Unless you're a art connoisseur or happen to run a high-profile museum, you probably came up with nothing. So let us not raise our hopes up unnecessarily (I tried this with my dad, who came up with "Andy Warhol." Yeah, he died in '87).

4. "You're so talented!"

This one may seem a bit counterintuitive, but bear with me. Sometimes people chock up artistic success to talent, which kind of implies there's no work involved. And that's frustrating, because art is a skill like any other: it takes countless hours to learn how to draw, paint, throw on the wheel, etc. Artists don't wake up one day with the intuitive knowledge of chiaroscuro or wet-on-wet blending. It takes practice. While, sure, some people are more visually inclined than others, the idea that it just happens naturally--something innate, something you are born with--is a myth.

This idea of the artistic genius dates back to the male renaissance complex associated with giants like da Vinci, Raphael, Michelangelo, etc. Like it or not, those voices disporportionaley shaped Western art history. And like it or not, every time the word "talent" is employed in this context, it reinforces a narrow scope (i.e. male, western, neoclassical) of aesthetics, reasserting a limited conception of who and what qualifies as valuable art and art makers.

5. "I could never do what you do."

Actually, you probably could. If you can hold a pencil and have the patience to spend countless hours learning how to draw, then yeah, you could make stuff as well. But not everybody wants to put in the time, money, effort, and honestly--little recognition--it takes to make things. And that's understandable.

6. "I have all this empty space in my apartment/ school/ restaurant /business if you want to put up some of your paintings!"

Would you expect a doctor to examine you for free? An accountant to do your taxes because it's fun for them? How about getting a massage, throwing your clothes on, and then unabashedly walking out the front door? No, because they provided a service and deserve to compensated for that service. Or, if you are not interested in employing their expertise, that's fine--but don't ask them to provide it for free.

What's even worse about this statement is that people actually expect you to be excited. Believe it or not, I am not falling over myself at the prospect of turning over my hard work and supplies for nothing. And no, it's not free marketing.

7. "So... have you been, like, eating ramen for like a month?"

Back to the DLI test: it's never okay to ask someone how much money they are making. Even if the profession notoriously doesn't pay well. You wouldn't ask a nonprofit consultant if they are having a hard time making rent, because, well, it's none of your business. From the same logic, it's not okay to ask an artist if they are starving. It's disrespectful and further reasserts the idea that their work is not valuable.

8. "Will you draw a picture of my dog?"

Fine art is about as far from a portrait of someone's dog as Bush is from a democrat. It's not fun for a painter to make a painting of your dog. It's kind of insulting and also kind of a sell out. Speaking of which...

9. I need something green for my house (to match my living room)! Do you do commissions?

If you are interested in our work, we have a portfolio. You know, work we already put a ton of time and money into. Look at the portfolio to see if you even like the kind of work we do before you start treating us like pottery barn. And if you are interested, it would be better (and more respectful to the artist) to purchase something from there. If not, there's a pottery barn down the road...

10. "What does it mean?"

Try again. A better question might be, "What concepts inform your work?", "Who are your artistic influences?", or "What kind of visual vocabulary do you use to get at your idea?"

We appreciate the interest, we do. And most artists enjoy talking about their work. But try to use appropriate language when asking an artist about their art, because something like "What does it mean?" feels like we have to justify ourselves and our work on the spot. Art is valuable, and artist shouldn't have to spend every cocktail hour and elevator ride trying to convince people that what they do matters.

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Process Study: The Farther

7/12/2015

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1. Design Form

First, I created a sketch of the form I wanted to create. This sketch does nothing for informing the painting process, but instead outlines the form I'm going to create in a strictly sculptural sense (pardon the lack of photo; all my sketchbooks are in a cardboard box somewhere in preparation for the move to NYC).

2. Realize Form

Here is the panel all gessoed and ready to be painted in my studio. The rectangular elements you see both recede (top right) and come forward (bottom left) into space.

3. Begin the Painting Process

Honestly, this piece went smoothly from the beginning. Note that this is NOT always the case. Making a series of art pieces is kind of like having multiple children: some of them seem to obey from the get go, while others are a bit of a struggle. And then you have to find them homes where they will be safe and stop bothering you, but that's a whole other blog entry...

The beginnings of the painting process. I found starting this painting really easy in terms of figuring out the composition, as it already had a preprogrammed composition in the form of 3-dimensional space. As per usual, it felt like there needed to be a ephemeral staircase leading up to the top righthand corner. I actually painted the part in acrylic instead of oil (metallic colors don't really exist in oil). It's important to do any acrylic layers before oil, as things tend to disintegrate if you do the reverse.

Here's a side view. I enjoyed the connections between the real and illusionistic frames--especially the white rectilinear form framing a miniature composition within a composition. The lines to the right, right before the bronze staircase, are actually retraced with hot glue so that they have a textural, tactile component (not that you're allowed to touch) in person.

I know this piece seems like a bit of jump, but I think it's because this phase fell into place quite quickly and easily. Here I've added a molding paste and graphite texture to the white rectangle, done a layer of phthalo blue over the previously purple portal, and painted the shadowbox in the upper righthand corner a sky blue (as obviously the destination of the staircase has to be a bluespace. For more on bluespace, see my artist statement). I also added used tape in a mostly vertical fashion, cutting the bottom edge with an exact knife so it perfectly matches the negative shape of the receding staircase.

In addition to the purple portal, you can see the faint graphite lines outlining the next phase of the composition. I liked having an in-perspective frame to juxtapose the straight-on view of the white rectilinear element. I was already really excited about this painting at this point.

And a detail shot. I really liked how this particular area was coming along--especially that the 3D aspects mimicked a staircase. Made for a nice connection between the literal and the illusory.

At this point I knew it was time to slow down and stop adding too many elements to prevent it from getting busy. Nonetheless, the top lefthand corner felt empty. It definitely needed something--albeit something subtle.

Here I also added a strip of gold and bronze palette scrapings, or recycled paint. You can see it very faintly in this photo to the right of the molding paste.

So I added paint drips to the blank-ish area, which I felt resolved the issue. And I almost left it this way. In fact, I was so sure it was finished, I had my good friend Amryn Soldier photograph the piece. What changed things was what often changes things: my advisor, Virginia Derryberry. Virginia engaged me in a conversation that made me think about other possibilities. She got me thinking about pieces: pieces of compositions, pieces of rectangles, pieces of artistic waste in comparison to the whole.

And that’s when it occurred to me: The Farther was practically asking to have smaller pieces added to it. It would be the perfect solution to its pseudo-rectilinear problem—that is, how its barely not a rectangle. As art school will tell you, if you’re going to do something, do it all the way. Either make a perfect rectangle, or make it damn clear you weren’t trying to. Assert your piece in all its non-rectilinear glory.

4. Reevaluate

So I turned to my sketchbook. I ultimately decided to add 5 small pieces--separate panels, but displayed as part of the piece. I determined their general shape and placement while looking at the existing piece.

I wanted each additional panel to complement both the sculptural and painted elements of the existing piece. In other words, they needed to make visual sense from a 2-D and 3-D perspective.

4. The Final Product

Here hangs the final product in my solo show, Perpetual Pursuit: Painting the Unattainable, in Tucker Cooke Gallery! The top two pieces are actually 3-dimensional, imitating a frame where the outside comes forward into space. This goes conceptually along with the idea of trying to reach a space or idea that remains physically above, out of reach. Their measurements were designed to "tuck" into the rectilinear silhouette the larger panel creates.

The other three pieces continue the composition of the painting, extending golden palette scrapings to the left, the thick graphite line downwards, or continuing the bronze drips against a aquamarine backdrop.

(Bonus points if you noticed that piece #5 ended up moving to the right and down some so it fit in the corner.)

The final product was hung slightly above eye level as to reassure the themes of ascension throughout the show.

See the full features of The Farther here, or the rest of the solo exhibition images here.