A Leap in the Dark: Notes From The Studio
Say it Like You Mean it, 8" x 10" watercolor, ink on rice paper
I have been making art for almost as long as I have been alive.
It occurred to me the other day, that after all these years, I am just now figuring a few things out :-). Perhaps my comrades in this artistic endeavor might relate.
There are days in the studio when everything works, like some kind of kismet. You are amazed at what is manifesting, and you float through your space on a creative high (taking occasional dance breaks, in my case). Then there are those times when you wonder how you possibly made it this far in your crazy artist life because you truly don't know what you are doing in the least, and doubt is all-pervasive.
Famed dancer and choreographer, Agnes de Mille once said, "The artist never entirely knows. We guess.We may be wrong, but we take leap after leap in the dark"
This "being in the dark" is a familiar—but not altogether ferocious—fiend in between the precious few moments of clarity. The dark, as I have discovered, can be a quiet refuge, as a womb, just biding time waiting for birth.
This is why, despite our reputation as depressed and moody sorts, artists are actually some of the most optimistic and hopeful people you will ever meet. We are the embodiment of beginner's mind. Trust me on this one. We have to be, because we truly believe that we are constantly on the verge of something. Even if at the moment it feels elusive, we know—WE TRUST— that that elusive something will present itself if only we keep lighting the way. And this, is the artist's job: to leap, even when we aren't sure. Even when we don't know.
With that in mind, I offer this list of coping mechanisms I have garnered as an artist over the years. These are things that I in fact, DO know. I employ them liberally in order to see myself through those shadowy, toe-stubbing, soul-sucking stumbles in the dark.
1. Trust the process
What you don't know, just might save you. You can't know the end of a painting before you begin. If you do, then you may as well be painting by numbers. You can only get from A to B. If there is already a Z, then there is little reason to make the painting. When asked once about his creative process, Jasper Johns offered this directive:
"Do something, do something to that, and then do something to that."
Every element or stroke of color is placed in relation to what you placed before it. It will feel like a roller coaster. Enjoy the ride.
2. A simple line can change everything
Don't underestimate the power of a subtle element. A line is the most versatile and variable tool in the box.
3. I can put light wherever I want
Despite artistic convention, I say bollocks to a single light source. At times I find multiple light sources enigmatic and energizing. It's ok to break a rule.
4. Every problem works itself out
I have written elsewhere that this idea, learned in the studio, applies to life in general as well. When you are "stuck" or are hanging onto something that isn't working, or you know the painting is not quite finished, but aren't sure how to resolve it, keep working and go back to #1.
5. Reserve your judgement
This is doubly true if it's something that is strange or unfamiliar. When your work takes a new direction, you are back in the dark and need to go through the tunnel for awhile before a decision can me made about the worthiness of that direction. New work needs breathing space. I once had a professor in art school who claimed that when he was out of the studio, he thought about his work constantly, and when he was in the studio working, he tried not to think at all. I love this. Too much thinking slows the intuitive process. You can squash an idea before it has had time to teach you something. Like what to do next.
6. Know when to finish
When is a painting finished? When what you are seeing somehow connects with an interior knowing.
Many artists struggle with this one. Francis Bacon would regularly rework finished paintings, if no one came to take them away. A painting of course, has many subjective stopping points. To keep going may make the painting stronger, or weaker, or just simply different. Not necessarily "better". For me, that finished moment is when I fall in love with what is in front of me. And as the beholder, I recognize that I don't want to change a thing.
7. Write about your work
Most artists by choice or by request eventually have to write about their work in a way that appeals to the art world denizens as well as the average viewer wandering into a gallery. The by-product of being forced to write a statement for an exhibition for example, is that you actually understand your work a little better. It's useful to clarify your own thought processes by writing them down. This is of course, when you are OUT of the studio (see #5). Something I used to do back in school was to keep journal entries on every piece I was working on. Not only where my investigations were taking me, but also, what was happening in my life as I worked on the piece. What was I reading? What films was I watching? Which conversations was I having? All of these things had a hand in informing my direction in the studio. It also made the process that much more interesting to me. Everything had a way of connecting.
8. Don't forget to play
This is the time to remember your childhood go-for-it-ness and abandon your intellectual hooey. Choose a new medium, or new colors, or a new approach without any thought to results. Even if what you produce makes you recoil, there will be a seed in there somewhere from which to grow something.
There are few endeavors that offer as many approaches, life lessons and discoveries than art-making. Nothing on this list is anything new to a working artist, but they are useful to ponder (see # 7) in order to understand the sometimes unsettling fluctuations between the light and the tunnel, between a line and a gash and between a leap and a fall. I have learned to make friends with the dark and see it as not a scary place at all, but as an artistic petri dish where ideas and elements are interacting and changing —unseen— but nevertheless active, waiting for illumination.
Pearl and Swine, 8" x 10" watercolor, ink, on rice paper.