Let me start off by saying that I'm not justifying what I do (I'll just keep doing it anyway). I can only speak from personal experience and maybe with some help from those people who I've identified/commiserated with in my travels.
Being a creative type is not a smart direction to chose in life. It chose me, rather than the other way round. It should be obvious that there is little money involved and there are days when I'd like to squeeze more out of it if only in terms of self gratification. Bad days in the studio really make you wonder. It's not a job for the meek. You are a bad artist if you can't take the criticism and an even worse one if you are not self-critical.
Working alone means that you face little in the way of feedback. Working in a void is a way to end up crazy. There are times when I think back to being in school and just how much of that experience was taken for granted. Words of advice: a person or persons who comments on your work honestly and clarity (although the clarity part is is above and beyond) should be treated like a true gift.
I use certain tricks when I'm stuck on something or feel as if I'm not getting a true read (Istill like to think of myself as my own worst critic, as the cliche goes). More and more trust of my intuiton has come with age and this has been helpful. I use the mirror trick to see something in a somewhat fresh light-or, I hang it upside down. For really problematic work, time is the best critic. I'll occasionally put a pc away, in theory to rethink it visually. But rarely will it stay undisturbed/unseen-I obsess over pieces like this-sometimes I'd rather destroy them than let them sit (they "sit" for me much like a splinter in the hand would sit, which is, not at all!)
Francis Bacon, who I guess is a bit of a hero to me, would have his problem paintings slashed and destroyed-he had true grit, I say (although I've never learned why he had others do it-was it too painful for him? Or was it that he could afford to hire the job out?)
I get up early every day (I do my best work in the early morning which, by the way, is when I usually write) and I'm in the studio by 8 am. I never know what the day holds for me and always look forward to starting something new (don't get the wrong idea here-I finish most all of my sculptures, but creating some of them is painful and slow while others seem to make themselves). Dunno if I'm alone in this or if other artists feel the same way that do. I consider myself somewhat blessed (or maybe just blessedly naive) in looking forward to each day of creating stuff. If the day were to stop holding promise for me, I'd stop holding promise for the day.
Being a creative type is not a smart direction to chose in life. It chose me, rather than the other way round. It should be obvious that there is little money involved and there are days when I'd like to squeeze more out of it if only in terms of self gratification. Bad days in the studio really make you wonder. It's not a job for the meek. You are a bad artist if you can't take the criticism and an even worse one if you are not self-critical.
Working alone means that you face little in the way of feedback. Working in a void is a way to end up crazy. There are times when I think back to being in school and just how much of that experience was taken for granted. Words of advice: a person or persons who comments on your work honestly and clarity (although the clarity part is is above and beyond) should be treated like a true gift.
I use certain tricks when I'm stuck on something or feel as if I'm not getting a true read (Istill like to think of myself as my own worst critic, as the cliche goes). More and more trust of my intuiton has come with age and this has been helpful. I use the mirror trick to see something in a somewhat fresh light-or, I hang it upside down. For really problematic work, time is the best critic. I'll occasionally put a pc away, in theory to rethink it visually. But rarely will it stay undisturbed/unseen-I obsess over pieces like this-sometimes I'd rather destroy them than let them sit (they "sit" for me much like a splinter in the hand would sit, which is, not at all!)
Francis Bacon, who I guess is a bit of a hero to me, would have his problem paintings slashed and destroyed-he had true grit, I say (although I've never learned why he had others do it-was it too painful for him? Or was it that he could afford to hire the job out?)
I get up early every day (I do my best work in the early morning which, by the way, is when I usually write) and I'm in the studio by 8 am. I never know what the day holds for me and always look forward to starting something new (don't get the wrong idea here-I finish most all of my sculptures, but creating some of them is painful and slow while others seem to make themselves). Dunno if I'm alone in this or if other artists feel the same way that do. I consider myself somewhat blessed (or maybe just blessedly naive) in looking forward to each day of creating stuff. If the day were to stop holding promise for me, I'd stop holding promise for the day.
The mixed media piece at the top is called "The Younger Napolean", measures 10" X 12", is done with acrylic, pencil and paper and sells for $175. plus shipping.
OK, and after all that, a poem on the same theme-and, since you asked, it's called:
Untitled
(drawn in)
by unknowable forces
A magnet under the water
A magnet under my skin
not seen not heard not touchable
A slave am I (I am?)
muse
she (trickster)
stuck like me
stuck like me
the weaver’s temple
the old glue trap
bound together
to be
thrown into the fire?
drowned in the sea?
helpless
stabbed with pottery shards
belonging to dusty museums ?
no
simply stuck
twin stiff compasses
foot fix’d
OK, and after all that, a poem on the same theme-and, since you asked, it's called:
Untitled
(drawn in)
by unknowable forces
A magnet under the water
A magnet under my skin
not seen not heard not touchable
A slave am I (I am?)
muse
she (trickster)
stuck like me
stuck like me
the weaver’s temple
the old glue trap
bound together
to be
thrown into the fire?
drowned in the sea?
helpless
stabbed with pottery shards
belonging to dusty museums ?
no
simply stuck
twin stiff compasses
foot fix’d
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