Theme and Variation 3/18/22

Most artists enjoy diving down rabbit holes to explore a particular theme. We mine a particular technique, pushing it into different directions. Plumbing the variations, we not only hone our skills, we also discover the ‘second order’ connections of one piece to another. Discovering the connections of one piece to another helps to guide our progress: each piece further binds the group together, and if we’re lucky, each additional piece gets slightly better. It’s a sort of self-discovery - an “oh, that’s where my brain was going with this!”-aha moment.

But how do we balance repetition with exploration, and how do we know when to shift to a new theme? We all know those artists who seem to do the same thing over and over, many of them fairly successful because, for the galleries and collectors, their work is always recognizable. I find that I often see these artists’ work with a mixture of eye-rolling but also self-doubt — a fear that I am missing some subtlety of their traverse that is actually a deep-dive I’m not detecting. But ultimately, my eye- rolling mostly wins out. I feel they are gaming the system without adding to the intellectual conversation (and yes, I am that kind of snob). On the flip side, I find that my snobbery can be helpful to my own progress — a sort of constant self-check mechanism to make sure I’m not doing that.

The flip side, though, can be a sort of art ADHD: changing my work too dramatically from piece to piece can deny the work the thematic connection the artworks deserve and causes me to miss important threads that should have received more attention.

This brings me back to the original issue. When can I say that a series is complete, that I have thoroughly plumbed the theme, and the work is ready to move on to a new theme? And how much change in the old work vs. the new work do I need to make in order to clearly mark that transition? In the past, I have radically changed techniques which serves as a very clear boundary. During my scientific career I also did this, completely changing course to explore a very different set of questions using a very different set of techniques. The frustrating part of that journey was having to essentially start over both to learn the new technical skills as well as the guidelines of what experiments will answer my new question(s). But with scientific maturity, I finally found a milieu that felt rich enough to hold my attention. And now, artistically, I think I am in a similar spot, whether it’s maturity of focus or just a truly rich constellation of techniques that let me connect the old to the new.

But continuing with a group of techniques once my mind starts to shift to a new topic makes it harder to see that previously sharp thematic boundary. So now I find that juncture to be noisy and blurred. Currently, I am just as likely to move “backwards” to add to a previous theme (of which there are now many) as I am to embark on the newer theme. And I can’t really predict what will finally push me completely into the newer theme and close the previous chapter. Mostly I see that transition in hindsight, with only a vague sense of when I stopped thinking about whatever was driving a particular series and started giving in to that tug towards something new. This makes me wonder how other artists know when they are facing a sharp shift vs. a more analog one. I would love to know...

What's in a Name? 2/28/22

Recently, I’ve been mulling over the process of naming artworks. I have been finishing up a few pieces and have hit that very specific form of “writer’s block” that comes from translating one’s artwork and the process of making it into some sort of language tag. I Find that my own process couldn’t be more random: I distinctly remember creating some works around a title that already existed in my head, which frankly is my preferred mode. When this happens, I interpret this blending of language and visual art as my conscious brain having the clarity of intention - of what I want to convey to my audience. On other occasions titles come to me just as I’m finishing the work. This too feels great as there is no real struggle for me to verbally/linguistically “interpret” my own work.

But the last categories - the one where the name comes to me weeks or even months after completion, or whose names I change weeks, months or even years later - can sometimes feel dishonest. As if I’m trying to retro-fit a concept I’m thinking about to an existing artwork. That said, I’ve recently decided to shed these negative feelings. After talking to a few other artists, I’ve come to realize that this range of approaches is quite common. Moreover, it can be quite helpful to “move away” from an artwork in time in order to better see what that work looks like from the outside looking in. And there’s no shame in shifting one’s own perspective about a piece, since it is always our intention to create something rich in meaning and layering, no matter how minimal the actual work. So what if our verbal/analytical cognition doesn’t match the same time scale as our visual creativity? After all, that’s why we find ourselves making visual art in the first place. It’s not an afterthought to our written words (though in some cases, I suppose it could be); if anything, it’s the reverse: the artwork is the primary creation, and the words have to find a way to fit that.

And at the end of the day, the development of those language tags (i.e. titles) that some of us need are a sort of handshake with our viewers, inviting them to look at our artwork with a peek into our own perspective.

“Hidden” (1997).

“What You Don’t See” (2021)

[“Hidden” (encaustic, linen and nails on wood, 16x16x16”) From the series “Hard Sensualism”.]

[“What You Don’t See (pigments and acrylic media on wood, 24x24x1.5”) from the series “Folding In”]

The Art of the Ensemble 2/14/22

Recently I had a discussion with an artist friend who is one of my favorite deep thinkers. She was commenting about her desire for an "ensemble" - not just in the literal musical sense (though she is also a talented musician), but in a more abstract sense: a small group of people who can share ideas and influence each other on a level that actually creates a shift in one's thinking and perspective. She realized that she has often felt a lack of those sorts of connections, and we wondered whether musical ensembles work because the people in them come together because they too are seeking those deeper connections and are thus made up of people who already 'think differently' so that 1) they are more motivated to connect to the other players, and 2) they have more unexpected perspectives to share than people who are better integrated into society at large.

So what does all this have to do with art? No matter how introverted we are, art is always a conversation with the people who see it. But unlike performance arts, visual artists rarely receive the immediate feedback of a grateful (or sorely disappointed) crowd. In order to extend that conversation, we too must seek out our ensemble, disparate or otherwise, - people who can help us see our work in a way that challenges or shifts our current path.

That said, I wanted to share a personal experience of this variety. After enquiring about paintings to purchase from my 'celebrity crush' painter, Fran O'Neill, I presented the choices to my husband. I had already chosen my favorites and narrowed them down to ~4. My husband, on the other hand, picked 2 that weren't even in my final set, and he didn't really even like my first choice. Thus a lengthy discussion began. Much to my surprise, I came to love the 2 my husband liked. I realized how much I appreciated that discussion, which shifted my views on an already favorite painter. In a time of great isolation, I find myself savoring these interactions all the more. Hopefully, by sharing this perspective, someone else can savor a similar interaction they've recently had and have a small perspective shift of their own.

“breezy sunday” by Fran O’Neil (2’x2’, oil on canvas. 2017)