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”]