For several years, or several months, the artist has been producing work. Some is hidden before anyone sees it. It does not even get considered for the final selection. The rest are placed throughout the studio to be studied.
What naturally goes together?
Which ones will someone want to buy because of x, y, z?
Which ones have already been sold and so need others to offer like work?
Which ones are reminiscent of previous work?
Which ones are suggestive of work to come?
How do they go together again?
And if it is done once by the artist, it will be done again by the gallerist, possibly by the gallery, and likely when the show is hung for good measure. The process edits cruelly because each painting was produced at some point with care, and then it gets dismissed, rejected possibly simply for its suitability.
Unless you are one of the required selectors-avoid this time assiduously.
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Hang the Show- Studio Time
I have a friend who has been working in the studio continuously trying to complete the work for his upcoming show. Everyone has been banned except for a few, and his temperament has slowly deteriorated as he becomes sleep deprived and blind to his own progress.
He was also earning a living by teaching so he would occasionally leave the enclave to supervise the budding skill of others. He picked up some commission pieces and quickly lost his mind juggling all the work. The bubble of the studio became the only safe place in which to operate because the rest of the world was such an extreme distraction from the mental space necessary to be continuously producing creative work.
Friends forgot how often he used to enjoy going for a drink.
Family wondered why he never answered the phone.
Food came from a delivery man rather than a market.
And eventually...he went 52 hours without sleep, refused to see anyone for a week and completed the show miserably disoriented but at least a little satisfied.
Had I listened to anything said about the work in the weeks leading to the opening, I would have feared for his sanity and the success of the show. Instead, I took it as a bit of melodrama. In other words, ignore artists before a show.
You will hear the artist say something like: “Hang the show. I quit. I want to be a car mechanic.” Ignore it. He is unlikely to quit it all to become a mechanic, plumber, hairdresser, or join the family business–ideas that I have heard from various artists at different times. If one decides to move to Nepal, do not look into plane tickets.
All of this is so concerning of course, because stuck in the studio, you never do hear any news. When what you hear is that the work is terrible and Abu Dhabi is their next destination, it can be a trifle concerning.
Leave them to the studio and it will work itself out. If you are ignored, do not take it personally. The studio becomes a sacred space and only those involved in the sacrifice may be permitted to enter. It isn't pretty and the cost of entry is your blood and brains.
Wait for the show opening, where the work can glow without your sweat, where the artist can rhapsodize about an experience mostly forgotten in the swell of speed that heightened the last effort. Some memories are best left to the silent walls of the studio.
He was also earning a living by teaching so he would occasionally leave the enclave to supervise the budding skill of others. He picked up some commission pieces and quickly lost his mind juggling all the work. The bubble of the studio became the only safe place in which to operate because the rest of the world was such an extreme distraction from the mental space necessary to be continuously producing creative work.
Friends forgot how often he used to enjoy going for a drink.
Family wondered why he never answered the phone.
Food came from a delivery man rather than a market.
And eventually...he went 52 hours without sleep, refused to see anyone for a week and completed the show miserably disoriented but at least a little satisfied.
Had I listened to anything said about the work in the weeks leading to the opening, I would have feared for his sanity and the success of the show. Instead, I took it as a bit of melodrama. In other words, ignore artists before a show.
You will hear the artist say something like: “Hang the show. I quit. I want to be a car mechanic.” Ignore it. He is unlikely to quit it all to become a mechanic, plumber, hairdresser, or join the family business–ideas that I have heard from various artists at different times. If one decides to move to Nepal, do not look into plane tickets.
All of this is so concerning of course, because stuck in the studio, you never do hear any news. When what you hear is that the work is terrible and Abu Dhabi is their next destination, it can be a trifle concerning.
Leave them to the studio and it will work itself out. If you are ignored, do not take it personally. The studio becomes a sacred space and only those involved in the sacrifice may be permitted to enter. It isn't pretty and the cost of entry is your blood and brains.
Wait for the show opening, where the work can glow without your sweat, where the artist can rhapsodize about an experience mostly forgotten in the swell of speed that heightened the last effort. Some memories are best left to the silent walls of the studio.
Hard Work
I just began a summer of two intensive language training programs and was feeling rather sorry for myself and the amount of work that I need to produce. The thought occurred to me, however, that hard work is the hallmark of most great art. Picasso may have been able to draw remarkably well from an early age, and kudos to him for it, but he was also obsessed with his own work and production time. His work came before much else in his life and though we may decry his less than stellar relationship history, we must also recognize the quality of the work produced. And this is true for many of the artists that are generally appreciated. We all, in fact, might learn something from this degree of effort.
Ach, it's true. Selfishness is not largely appreciated in our culture and certainly never before someone's work is recognized. We may all be tempted at times to put our work aside in order to make phone calls for the alumni association, or listen to a whining friend on a problem that will never change, or make supper because a good dinner is civilized, but if you care more about your pesto than your paintbrushes don't bother calling yourself a painter. If that television show is enticing you away from the play you started eight months ago then don't call yourself a writer. A friend attended an open studio along with several others in which the "artist" proudly announced that the three drawings on the wall had been produced in fifteen minutes each. I was as appalled hearing the story as he had been insulted. I could hardly imagine how the artists who had put effort into their work and their presentation felt to be associated with such a jester.
Don't waste my time with your second rate efforts. If it was that easy to draw the picture then you owe it to yourself to try something harder. I have many verbs to memorize for a quiz on Friday and the only way to do it well is to sit and repeat the conjugations over and over and over again. Likewise, from what I can tell, the only way to excel at painting is by drawing the figure over and over and over again. We learn through repetition to recognize our flaws, errors that hide subtly under our complicated constructions. That is why artists continue to sit in front of figure models and sketch five, ten and twenty minute poses even after many years of large scale paintings, whether they be portrait or landscape or abstract artists.
Hard work means not seeing friends, missing the opening of a new play, upsetting a lover, eating yogurt because you don't have time to go to the store. Not always, of course, but sometimes. To expect an artist to be sociable is patently absurd. How on earth would they produce such work if not for the fact that their work takes precedence to something else. That is what a work of passion is!
Now I may not claim to be passionate about the first six principle parts of Ancient Greek verb forms, or the forty odd irregular verbs required for my Italian quiz, but I can at least take a deep breath and do it without complaining. This attitude may not always produce art, but it is a basic foundation to the art of living.
Ach, it's true. Selfishness is not largely appreciated in our culture and certainly never before someone's work is recognized. We may all be tempted at times to put our work aside in order to make phone calls for the alumni association, or listen to a whining friend on a problem that will never change, or make supper because a good dinner is civilized, but if you care more about your pesto than your paintbrushes don't bother calling yourself a painter. If that television show is enticing you away from the play you started eight months ago then don't call yourself a writer. A friend attended an open studio along with several others in which the "artist" proudly announced that the three drawings on the wall had been produced in fifteen minutes each. I was as appalled hearing the story as he had been insulted. I could hardly imagine how the artists who had put effort into their work and their presentation felt to be associated with such a jester.
Don't waste my time with your second rate efforts. If it was that easy to draw the picture then you owe it to yourself to try something harder. I have many verbs to memorize for a quiz on Friday and the only way to do it well is to sit and repeat the conjugations over and over and over again. Likewise, from what I can tell, the only way to excel at painting is by drawing the figure over and over and over again. We learn through repetition to recognize our flaws, errors that hide subtly under our complicated constructions. That is why artists continue to sit in front of figure models and sketch five, ten and twenty minute poses even after many years of large scale paintings, whether they be portrait or landscape or abstract artists.
Hard work means not seeing friends, missing the opening of a new play, upsetting a lover, eating yogurt because you don't have time to go to the store. Not always, of course, but sometimes. To expect an artist to be sociable is patently absurd. How on earth would they produce such work if not for the fact that their work takes precedence to something else. That is what a work of passion is!
Now I may not claim to be passionate about the first six principle parts of Ancient Greek verb forms, or the forty odd irregular verbs required for my Italian quiz, but I can at least take a deep breath and do it without complaining. This attitude may not always produce art, but it is a basic foundation to the art of living.
Missing Art
Sometimes I find myself in a location where I know there is a great deal of art to be seen and possibly enjoyed, but do not get to see it. This was the case with my recent trip to Washington DC where there are the wonderfully rich Smithsonian Museums, besides the many other galleries. It has happened before, travelling for work in San Francisco, Chicago and yet not attending their famous museums.
There are always excuses. Usually the excuse is time. This time, I was on the road between different family members' homes and on my way to an alumni meeting for my college. The small gallery at my college was closed and I thought to ask the Alumni Relations Director to open it and allow us to see the current exhibit but did not want to be a bother. In the past, I have decided there were too many business meetings and the museum trip was not possible to add. I have argued that the museum was too far away and so would take too much time in to-ing and fro-ing. Sometimes, the excuse is that I am tired. Other times it has been the weather. Excuses are easy to find.
The truth is that I regret these lost opportunities. This time, for example, I wish that I had made time to go to the National Gallery of Art simply because it offers the comfort of the familiar and would have calmed me amidst the family bustle. Seeing the art at the college would have revived me during the dull patter of gossiping divisions after brainstorming sessions and powerpoint presentations. I would have better enjoyed my many travels for work had I taken advantage of the locations to which I was required to fly. The weather would have been irrelevant once inside the cosy sanctuary of a desolate museum on a stormy day.
I live in a city with so many galleries and museums that it is inevitable I would miss some shows. But I miss so many more simply out of laziness. After a long week of work, I do not spend Friday evening at one of the free entries to world class museums. On a frigid or muggy day, I do not wander into the temperate climate of a gallery. If I did, I might find that I was less concerned with a friend's rebuff, with a less than stellar evaluation, with the nonsense agitation of life in the Big City. I convince myself that I am too tired, overwhelmed, distraught to look at another's work of passion when in fact that would relieve the headache far better.
Looking at art fills me with new thoughts. Even if the thoughts reflect my dislike of the art I see, the occasion wipes my mind of the minutiae that confound me, presenting instead alternative neuronal pathways. Or so it seems. Sometimes, I discover that I am filled not with thought but with visions and am grateful that art somehow managed to silence the language of my mind- even if only briefly.
It should be possible to make time for art. It is possible. It is merely a choice. Otherwise I miss it. The less we attend these art events, the fewer of them there will be to enjoy. And that I would really miss.
There are always excuses. Usually the excuse is time. This time, I was on the road between different family members' homes and on my way to an alumni meeting for my college. The small gallery at my college was closed and I thought to ask the Alumni Relations Director to open it and allow us to see the current exhibit but did not want to be a bother. In the past, I have decided there were too many business meetings and the museum trip was not possible to add. I have argued that the museum was too far away and so would take too much time in to-ing and fro-ing. Sometimes, the excuse is that I am tired. Other times it has been the weather. Excuses are easy to find.
The truth is that I regret these lost opportunities. This time, for example, I wish that I had made time to go to the National Gallery of Art simply because it offers the comfort of the familiar and would have calmed me amidst the family bustle. Seeing the art at the college would have revived me during the dull patter of gossiping divisions after brainstorming sessions and powerpoint presentations. I would have better enjoyed my many travels for work had I taken advantage of the locations to which I was required to fly. The weather would have been irrelevant once inside the cosy sanctuary of a desolate museum on a stormy day.
I live in a city with so many galleries and museums that it is inevitable I would miss some shows. But I miss so many more simply out of laziness. After a long week of work, I do not spend Friday evening at one of the free entries to world class museums. On a frigid or muggy day, I do not wander into the temperate climate of a gallery. If I did, I might find that I was less concerned with a friend's rebuff, with a less than stellar evaluation, with the nonsense agitation of life in the Big City. I convince myself that I am too tired, overwhelmed, distraught to look at another's work of passion when in fact that would relieve the headache far better.
Looking at art fills me with new thoughts. Even if the thoughts reflect my dislike of the art I see, the occasion wipes my mind of the minutiae that confound me, presenting instead alternative neuronal pathways. Or so it seems. Sometimes, I discover that I am filled not with thought but with visions and am grateful that art somehow managed to silence the language of my mind- even if only briefly.
It should be possible to make time for art. It is possible. It is merely a choice. Otherwise I miss it. The less we attend these art events, the fewer of them there will be to enjoy. And that I would really miss.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)