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| Cool Gray Studio |
Each time I lift that apron over my head and lay it down (or hang it up, if I'm being a good girl), it has been worn and bears the mark of whatever the current creative project is. Looking at it is almost like flipping through a favorite photo album. each color reminds me of the project it belongs to and the experience I had creating it. It's a good feeling. A healing feeling. And, if you're following along, you'll know from previous blogs that making art is a vital therapy for me. So, when I look at this photo, I feel a sense of accomplishment, grounding, and satisfaction. In a way, I see evidence that I am here on the planet and there will be some legacy left once I leave it. That's not arrogance; it's more the desperate hope that our lives meant something that I think we all feel to one degree or another.
I want to talk about art for a moment. I was a Fine Arts student for a few years way back in the 1980s. I learned all the things an art student learns then: Color theory, figure drawing, perspective, design and composition, sculpture. And, art history. I learned about all of the "important" artists through the ages, all the names of all the styles and eras, and why they mattered. Last week, I saw the film, "Final Portrait," a quiet character study of Alberto Giacometti. Watching this depiction of an "important" artist struggling with his own perception of his work brought back a bunch of memories of those classes. Giacometti anguished that he was either on the brink of ruining his current work or had just done so, irretrievably. I think that's something anyone who creates experiences. Certainly, I do. But, more importantly, those feelings had a lot to do with why I didn't pursue a career in art when I was in art school. The more I learned, the more I convinced myself I simply wasn't talented enough, or important enough, to call myself an artist. I constantly compared my work to those around me to whom form and design seemed to come naturally. My own father is a natural talent in that regard. I couldn't draw anything that looked balanced or realistic, so I decided I was untalented. I got a corporate job and decided art was just a hobby for me.
It's over 30 years later, and the world has profoundly changed since 1980. In particular, the art world. Today, "important" art (that is to say, art for which people will pay millions of dollars) is defined more by the celebrity of the artist or the marketing spectacles created around a piece than any adherence to the rules and guidelines I learned about in art history class. If one famous person has paid a fortune for someone's giant sculpture of a piece of fruit, suddenly everyone who has millions of dollars to spare wants their own giant piece of fruit. The documentary, "Blurred Lines," on Netflix makes this point far better than I can. If the subject interests you, watch it. Essentially, it concludes that art today is whatever the artist produces and whatever the consumer wants to own. There's something sad about that to me. In a way it's evidence of a decline of civilization...of a bygone era of elevated tastes and refined opinions. I'm sure there are still plenty of gallery owners who believe they possess both of those things, however, so I guess I won't allow myself to mourn too much.
Another phenomenon has also affected the art world for those of us who don't have millions of dollars to spend. The blending of the art and craft worlds has made room for me and for many others to explore ways to use simple techniques and supplies to create affordable works of art other people actually want to purchase for their homes. I'm one of many YouTube artists who demonstrate, experiment, and teach others how to do some of these things. Etsy, craft fairs, and private commissions have opened up a whole new world of marketable art. (For Seinfeld fans, it's like Festivus for the rest of us!)
When we creators talk among ourselves about the ongoing debate on what the difference is between "art" and "craft," and whether any of us has a "right" to call ourselves and "artist," I see a new pride has emerged, a new confidence that comes along with time and effort spent to make something and make it well. There is a community of mutually-supportive artists who are willing to share their techniques and their art to inspire others. Sure, there's still a struggle with "ownership" of a design concept and some sense of competitiveness for eyeballs and sales, but the internet has allowed us to work that all out together, real time, for better or worse. I'm going with better. I'm going with better because this community introduced me to acrylic pouring, dot art, and some other forms of artistic expression that busted down the brick wall between art and me and allowed me to find a way to create something that feels authentic and has a healing benefit for me. That just can't be bad.
It is only this year, 30 years after art school, that I can unhesitatingly say the words, "I'm an artist" when introducing myself. While I may feel the rest of the world had to lower its standards in some way to allow this to happen, I'm also grateful that art is now available to me in a way it has never been before. One of the artists I follow on YouTube said it best, when she said, "Art is not about talent. Art is a desire. We make art because we deeply desire to do it." Yes to that. I want to be quick to add that I still have a world of respect for artists who have spent a lifetime disciplining themselves, refining their art, have genuine talent, and make great fine art. However those artists may feel about sharing the playing field with people like me, I'm happy to be on it.
It has always been the case for me that I am most at peace when I am surrounded by color in the form of paint. Color, I think, makes me happier than most things. The smell of an art studio is heaven for me. I am so grateful to my husband for understanding what PTSD does to me and why it keeps me home-bound so much of the time, and also what art does to heal me. His mother was an artist, too. He really does get it. So, I am an artist. My apron is what I wore. My journey is to be shared. I'm glad you're here on the path with me.
'Til next time, I am CoolGray
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