a loose weaving of thoughts on (my) art and where I find myself in the creative ecosystem
When asking myself why I create art, an incomplete but true answer would be because it’s what I’ve always done. In the moments that I am incapable of stringing together the right words, I turn to art. It’s how I find myself dealing with feelings - both those that I don’t want and those that I would like to preserve and hold close to take with me wherever I go. It’s a deeply personal act, whether or not that is my intention. I believe that is because it is impossible to hide from your creations, that everything ends up on display and it is entirely you, right now, in the present. What is reflected is who I am, not who I was or who I wish to be. She is the person with whom I engage and spend my time with. I can no more produce the same pieces as I did a year ago than I can create something that I’m not ready to make.
Art and observation are inseparable, and that to me is seduction of art. That exhilaration comes from the act of being witness to the world and to the people in it. Each line drawn forces me to step outside away from the moving thoughts in my head and notice something new - the strain of a vine fighting to breach a fence, the delightful smiles of people receiving their morning coffee, or my own mind’s singing accentuated by the unadulterated attention. The act enforces a certain engagement that resists passively living. To create art is to attend to yourself and to others and to the world.
At any time, I love to sketch my surroundings because with that single act the space around and inside me begins to expand. One drawing exercise gifted by a teacher consists of drawing what’s in front of me while avoiding looking at your page except in the peripheral. The result is a jumbled spaghetti mess of lines from pen that does not leave the paper. The result is heightened perception of the subject unburdened by the pressure of accuracy. Perfection melts away and delightful details continue to bloom into view. I could spend an hour telling you about the character of my kitchen table on a sunny morning or the lines on my mom’s face from her years lived. It is a gift to be able to see, notice, and accept.
The other personalities can be incredibly playful. Early in the pandemic when the room I woke up in was the one I stayed in was the one I worked in was the one I slept in, another exercise that kept me sane was to draw my room, but gradually insert other elements either from memory or from imagination. Arches graced my walls, my wall became a window, the window changed shape, nature came inside, and all sorts of lovely trinkets graced my room. The imaginative exercise changed the world I lived in and created new ones for me to occupy.
I didn’t start calling myself an artist until this year. Previously, to me, artists were these magical beings wholly dedicated to their craft and I never felt that I was deserving of the label. Dabbler felt a more comfortable label on my skin. Painting oceans and sculpting plates, knitting scarves I’d never wear in a Texas winter, sewing avant-garde pantsuits for a miniature mannequin - the common thread being that I never stuck with one thing for very long. I never attained the badge of mastery that designated who the artists were. I was a person who loved to create art, but not an artist. As a result, I was moved anytime someone I deemed an artist acknowledged my vision, but the acknowledgement never came from myself.
It’s funny looking knowing that is precisely what an artist is: someone who creates art. I now don’t believe it’s not much more complicated than that. The space of the past year’s reflections and exploration of other pieces of my life allowed me the courage to search and the kindness to accept what I found. Technique, inspiration, aesthetics aside - I believe what is common to all art is a hope. A hope of answering a question that is asked. And in the past year, I’ve had to ask a lot of questions to myself and the world. The worries of skill and originality are tangential, invoked in the pursuit of a vision whose real counterpart might never match up. There is beauty in chasing a vision. There is also work. I know now if great art looks like magic, it isn’t the type to be cast with a wave of a wand but a spell painstakingly brewed over scalding fires with meticulously prepared ingredients - the intention of the spellcaster must be in the spell. There is a power in this spell - it changes the caster along with the target. A summer camp making pottery was how I came to terms with my heritage through the encouragement of someone who unapologetically displayed hers in Chicana art. Theater sessions that I grudgingly attended in that same camp only because I had to allowed me to chip at my shy shell, reveling in the permission to be silly. The communities that supported my creativity are the ones who supported the becoming of me.
It’s very easy to see how the lone artist stereotype arises - at the end of the day, my art is a motley band composed of me, my materials, and my experiences. The intimate conversation I have with my canvas need not be heard by anyone else. But the communities that I’ve found are the ones that have kept me creating. With the presence of social media, finding others that share an artistic interest and sharing your work is easier than picking a place to eat. The connection feeds some sense of purpose and growth, but mostly, the sense of connection to others who are also grappling with their own hopes and questions is enough. We share tips, thoughts, and the knowledge that we are not alone.
The question I am grappling with now is what do I want to do with my art? If my art is the product of my lived experiences and my hopes for the future - what does it mean to add those to the creative ecosystem? My creative juices used to run heaviest from a place of sadness and I’m gently moving to create from a position of joy through habit. My daily generative sketches are my exercises in wonder - wonder at the range of simple code and randomness and wonder at the momentum I am deliberately building for myself. The interweaving of technology and art broadens the possibility for expression and appreciation and connection. Physical distance and traditional institutions no longer influence who can experience a piece of art. A caveat to this is that while the creation of art is personal and separate from the interpretation, the internet can easily arouse a performative temperament, tailored too much for another’s interpretation. How someone interprets art is also a product of their own lived experiences. Then interpretation, like creation, is something innately personal, yet in many areas there is common ground. It’s amazing that the same work can bring up similar feelings in people with completely different backgrounds. It says something of the human condition that our experiences lead us to the same human reactions. I’m still thinking of how to convey my meanings into what I create. My hope is that if I am genuine in my voice, someone out there will be moved. My goal, however, is only to move myself. Creation lives in the space of a lovely uncertainty principle - to make art is to capture a state of being, but the act itself necessarily changes the artist.