One revelation I take from the Covid 19 pandemic is that solace, meditation and joy may be found in drawing and painting. But for most artists drawing and painting necessitates studio space, tools, materials and storage which can be impossible to acquire or secure in the challenging circumstances we are now experiencing.
For the past few days I have been using the Procreate application on my iPad to make digital paintings and drawings. Until recently I had dismissed the iPad as a serious art tool and medium. But I came to realize it offers an efficient, forgiving, flexible, mobile, economic, and aesthetically pleasing way to work. The Procreate application, combined with the Apple Pencil and the iPad’s touch screen permits the immediate capture of nuanced and pressure sensitive marks and strokes. And there is no paper, charcoal, graphite or paint being consumed. Nor do the resulting jpegs (or Tiffs, PSDs) require a flat file for storage. Moreover, the final art can be shared online or printed out, singly or in editions. It can also be used to make books, presentations and animations.
Everyone has an opinion about what Art is or isn’t. When asked to explain their opinion they may say art is whatever the artist says it is. Or, I don’t know much about art but I know what I like. Neither response is satisfactory and each is a protestation of ignorance.
But what then elevates something to the status of art with a capital A? In the Balinese language, for example, there is no word for art or artist, even though the Balinese people produce exquisite paintings, carvings, weavings, music, writing and dance. In their culture artistic expression is an inextricable part of their religion and rituals.
And then there is the question of beauty. Many people, probably most, would aver that art must be beautiful. But what constitutes beauty?
In his poem, Ode on a Grecian Urn, John Keats wrote, “Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.” His words posit that the measure of art is how close it brings us to the truth‚ regardless of whether that truth is pleasant or disturbing. So a truthful painting, depicting the horror of war, may be a beautiful picture brilliantly executed by a skilled and passionate artist—a genuine work of art. But it will not be pretty or pleasant to behold.
The following are some of the many questions about what is art that defy definitive answers but are worth pondering:
How broad and inclusive can the definition of art be before it becomes meaningless?
For something to be a work of art, must its maker have intended it to be art?
Marcel Duchamp said of his work, “It is Art if I say so.” In today’s art world this is an accepted dictum. But, is art really whatever the artist says it is?
Can one become a legitimate artist just by proclaiming that they are? Am I a chef because I can scramble eggs and brew coffee?
If everyone can be an artist, and art is whatever the artist says it is, what meaningful measures of artistic quality and excellence can there be?
Is art always political?
When a work is fabricated by skilled craftspersons and technicians, following the artist’s specifications, are they all the artist?
One of the most difficult decisions for an artist to make is what to charge for her or his work. Let’s consider the following example of a hypothetical painter.
Janine is an experienced but not well-known artist. She has spent most of her adult life living in a small town in a “flyover” state. In the town there is a frame shop that sells the work of local artists, and a member supported cooperative gallery that limps along on membership fees and grants. Janine has a deep knowledge of art history and has honed her painting skills over a period of more than 20 years, but she lacks formal credentials—having not so much as an Associates degree. But she is not a Sunday dauber. And though she lacks formal art credentials and the recognition of the art world, she is, nonetheless, a real artist. When she can’t make art she suffers—like a mother torn away from her child. It is art and art making that gives her meaning and purpose. And though her art brings her joy it sometimes plunges her into despair and self doubt, causing her to question why she follows this path that demands so much sacrifice.
Janine’s paintings are not conventional, pretty, cute or clever. They are non-representational. She doesn’t paint pictures of adorable puppies or stunning sunsets. She does not study what sells and then conform her paintings to the demands and preferences of the market. She does not make a fetish of technique. She does not paint for an audience and acclaim. She is not an entertainer. Janine paints to express feelings from the core of her being. She finds solace in art making. She uses her art to express and share what is otherwise ineffable. For her painting is visual poetry and inquiry. It is a form of breathing; of being.
So asking Janine, the artist, the price of any one of her paintings is to ask her to place a monetary value on part of her soul—something she (or any artist) should never undervalue.
I crossed to the northwest corner at Dewey and Grover streets where sits the house where the Mill’s family had lived in the nineteen fifties and sixties. It had been a beautiful place then.
Mr. Mills restored antique cars and he lavished that same care and attention on his home as he did his restorations. But on this day, more than forty five years later, the place stood vacant. The lawn was overgrown, several of the upper windows were broken and the exterior paint was faded and peeling.
I’d come to Owosso this morning to take photographs of the neighborhood in which I’d grown up. My plan had been to roam about and photograph whatever caught my attention. As I looked at what had been the Mill’s home, I noticed the vintage television antenna on the roof. It was laying on its side and seemed to be reaching up to the tree above it, reminiscent of Michelangelo’s painting in the Sistine Chapel; the hand of God reaching down to Adam.
The tree’s branches were budding with spring’s promise. In contrast the antenna lay lifeless and cold—an anachronism. It was probably the very antenna that once brought into the Mill’s living room the Lone Ranger, Soupy Sales, Sky King, and Roy Rogers, in black and white, in those days of innocence and ignorance.
Looking through the viewfinder I composed to include the antenna, roofline and branches. I made 3 or 4 exposures and was satisfied. But then, I noticed in the distance, the contrail of high flying jet approaching from the east. I thought, if I could make the same photograph, but this time with the contrail included, it would enrich the meaning of the picture.I returned the camera to the tripod and composed for the same scene again. When the long white line came into the frame I made several exposures to be sure I got a good one. And I did.
I made a photograph that day that contrasted the natural and the manufactured, the then and now. I had made a photograph that displayed a pleasing arrangement of shapes, tones and lines—a photograph of good geometry. It spoke to the history of the last century and the one we now live in. It is one of the most satisfying photographs I have ever made. And not once during that process, nor since, did I feel I needed more than the 12 megapixel capability of the Nikon D90 I used.
NOTE: This piece was originally written in 2013 and revised 5 November 2019.
It is not for me to decide the value of my art except in regard to my personal standards of art and art making. I will know what I think of the work—whether or not it satisfies me. But I cannot perceive what other people perceive. I do not see with their eyes. I cannot feel their feelings. I have not lived their experience.
So it is pointless to think of myself as a success or failure as an artist. Perhaps one day, after I have died, my work will hang in prestigious collections and museums. Perhaps it will all end up in the landfill. I won’t be here to know and it doesn’t matter.
What does matter is that my art making is a testament to my decision to mean—that it asserts my existence and brings me solace.
Without design there is no art. To design is to plan and consciously construct, even if moment-to-moment. Design is the orchestration of the elements in the art work. Design integrates the bits into a whole. A painting can fail because, after hours and hours of work, the artist fails to place a single pencil eraser sized stroke, of just the right color, in just the right spot.