8 June 2020
Forsake the rose and blush thyself
Evening Prayer Brunswick Heads, 19 June 2020, oil on canvas board, 30 X 25 cmThis study was the first of two from a few evenings ago. It had rained all morning but cleared somewhat by the late afternoon when I arrived to a virtually deserted beach. A large wild-looking red cloud awaited me so I quickly set up and managed to jump into this picture. Interesting, I like the unusual colour harmony with its cool green sea under an even cooler violet sky, but it works in a curious way. I like especially the free-wheeling sweep of pink sky overhead made of barely three or four brushstrokes. I wish I could pull that off more often because it’s as spontaneous as it gets.
Someone came over and saw it the other day propped up on my kitchen stove and remarked to me that “it seems so French”. I was unprepared for this particular take on the work, so I stammered slightly before finally saying, “well yes.... I guess so......maybe because,,, I lived there for so long,,,, but also because I learned to paint there”. That was all I could come up with at the time, but it was true.
I was a little taken aback because I couldn’t detect whether or not it was a compliment or a slight. I was surprised by the question, but funny enough lately, I’ve actually been thinking about how schools of art, and schools generally, can form a student’s cultural education. Isn’t it usually after the original innovators had already arrived and made their revolutionary mark on culture that ‘schools of’ sprout up? And doesn’t it also follow, that afterward, the followers and devotees make all sorts of rules and dictums for the subsequent adherents that are sure to follow? This somehow seems natural because there never seem to be enough ‘geniuses’ to go around, at least enough upon whom to fit these crowns. But this is not just reserved for the world of culture, but also to politics, economics, religion, etc, etc... I mean, basically, aren’t we all just sheep?
Throughout the history of all the arts it seems to have always been this way. We've all been influenced by masters, teachers, and great works that have touched us. The trick was for me was to learn to take what I needed and simply leave the rest. Easy enough, if one knows what one needs. But in my own life it wasn’t always so clear about what was going to be good for me. One exception was when I met my teacher Leo Marchutz in Aix. I somehow knew enough that he was the real deal, so I stayed to study with him until his death in 1976.
But because I was a little obtuse, it was usually only much later on when I would understand what it was I needed from a particular experience. Life for the curious-minded is always unexpected, but for the clueless and the curious like me, it was always more complicated.
No longer art students, it seems that for many of us, we bound forth naively and quickly find ourselves far away from our teachers, mentors, and family influences. Yet just as suddenly, we’re alone in our solitary studios, full of questions, and at times, full of despair.
But all this isn’t a bad thing if it pushes us to discover the right questions which we'll need to ask about ourselves; like, what do we need each day to develop our own authentic voice? If we didn’t, we would likely remain trapped in a prison full of someone else’s ideas. But that is the curse and the blessing of having strong influences in our lives as art students. If one calls oneself a painter, then this thing, we call painting, must become a habit to finding our true selves. Almost all great artists pass this wisdom on to students.
In the end, for me to be a painter, is a worthwhile activity even when I fall on my face. This has to be my identity, and it’s something I use as both a shield from life‘s cruelty, and a sword to defend myself against it. It may sound awful, or just melodramatic to say this, but there comes a point when every artist must be strong enough to free themselves from their teachers. Like the Buddha himself once said: “if you see the Buddha, kill him”.
In the end, I have to ask myself: Can there be room inside my own creativity for other authors? Can a bus have two drivers? “Watch the sunset!” I remind myself when I take all this too seriously, or as Shakespeare said: “Forsake the rose! and blush thyself!”
No matter what kind of pictures a painter makes towards the end of his or her life, one would hope to have found glimmers of one’s own real and authentic nature. Maybe painting, as a craft, despite all its ups and downs, is a kind meditational thing, like when people go off for forty or fifty years of their lives to live in a community or monastery ‘to find themselves’. And why not? It’s a good thing to do during a lifetime. I mean, I think it’s a vital thing for anyone to find connection with creativity, because we all need to counteract the cruel craziness of human behaviour sometimes just outside our door. Personally, I prefer studying both piano and painting, which is great luxury because they need time. Isn't anyone lucky to be studying what they wish to investigate? If more people were fortunate enough to practice a creative craft of any sort, the world would be a much happier place I think.
It took me a long while before I could understand this urgency of art. This for me, was like awakening to the urgency of life, the older I’ve become. Doesn’t the practice of anything creative force us to get real with ourselves? The sooner the better I think now, having slept through so much of my life. This search for authenticity has become increasingly vital as I follow my own curved arc through life. And the thing is, art cannot be faked because it’s out there for everyone to see in the work. Is it any good? Was it ever any good? Did one paint pictures to explore themselves or to fall into the trap of seducing the public?Does the curved arc of an artistic life end with a pot of gold like at the end of the rainbow? Or was the pot of gold spread evenly out over a long squirrelly path of curiosity?
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