Artist Book

[Pluto]

He had spent the whole day looking at his work, trying to see if it was as good as he thought it was. This went on over months and then years, believing as he did that what was in front of him was art of the highest order. He had to say why though, as was the way, so many times he had sat down to write but each time nothing, nothing sounded right on the page. He told himself that visual art (painting) was just that, visual, and that writing was a seperate art with other considerations, requirements, and outcomes. Yet, to communicate what you were doing with your art seemed reasonable. Then again, knowing was one thing and communicating this in words, another. Perhaps it was not his job to say what the work was doing, why it was so good and why it had to look this way. After all he had discovered some time ago that thinking or rather what one thought was not at the front of understanding in general. What one presently thought was always suspect to change, and was in fact forever changing, playing catch-up to another more archaic mode of understanding, which, wanting a better word, could be said to be - intuition. But this word was of course cliched and unclear, yet to note, that there was something which knew before thought, that was clear. Of course, he had been asked numerous times about his work, and each time had struggled to say something concrete, a vague "the paintings are models of paintings, not real', or "the painting is an actor or a prop onstage working towards a greater/more powerful, whole", but these responses changed as did the weather, and it all depended on who was asking and what he was thinking about at the time. Personally, he felt that the explanation was in truth not needed, or at least he hoped so, for the work itself in relation to the present time would, he thought, be enough to show how important it was. That said, and at the same time, he understood the power of words, especially when they were in the service of art.

It was slowly getting late, and as the dishwasher beeped for a third time he got up, turned the lights out, and went happily to bed. Tomorrow was a new day, and he had a lot to do.

[artisticsolution]

I like your writing....esp the first line. I hate going to bed in love (with one of my paintings) only to wake up the next day to the ugliest art I am ashamed to admit I did.

I need to make 30 paintings in 3 weeks, plus a commission, plus 4 beer coasters of which I have 2 finished...all to make sure I keep the wolf from the door. I wonder if being an artist is worth the effort?

I'm tired

[Pluto]

Yes I know it, as you get older it gets more difficult. You have to work crappy jobs which (can easily) destroy your mind, body and soul. The artist lives and works among the beaten and poor. Working keeps an artist's ear to the ground.

[mickthinks]

Here's Neil Gaiman on the topic of being an artist.

[uwot]

Here's Neil Gaiman on the topic of being an artist.

Loved it. Thanks for that mickthinks.

[artisticsolution]

Thanks Mick!

"Make good art" no matter what...every day I try my best to do just that...the problem is, I think, that not everyday I like myself. On the days I hate myself, everything I touch I think is crap...I still put it up for sale...I don't have the luxury of being able to hide it or myself.

Funny things happen though...I made this painting that I hated and then I realized it was of a dream I had when I was younger. A young man walked by and kept staring at it...and I was embarrassed I had made it. Then he asked me about the cost of the painting and I reluctantly told the story of my dream. He purchased the painting and I no longer saw it as an embarrassment. Even though I still think it needed something....I have no clue what.

Making good art is what most artist try to do...but what do you do if one day you hate all that you are? How is it possible to make good art? And that is the crux of the problem he called the "impostor syndrome" someone ends up loving what you hate...what you know sucks...and you feel as if you've taken advantage of someone who doesn't know you fucking suck....

[Pluto]

...he awoke early and knocked off his alarm which he had set the night before. It was not yet light and the house was still, he got dressed and made coffee. Taking a banana with him he left the house and took the car from the garage, the street was empty as he drove into town. Was there a market today he wondered, it was a national holiday she had said, all shops closed, but as he turned the corner approaching the church he saw the activity of people with cars, unloading their stuff and setting up their stalls. The sun appeared over the house tops and cast long shadows over the square.

[Pluto]

E8Jyv6zNJKysjW7u.jpg (25.85 KiB) Viewed 5101 times

It was something he had made some months before, and now he looked at it as for the first time.

[vegetariantaxidermy]

I like your writing....esp the first line. I hate going to bed in love (with one of my paintings) only to wake up the next day to the ugliest art I am ashamed to admit I did.

I need to make 30 paintings in 3 weeks, plus a commission, plus 4 beer coasters of which I have 2 finished...all to make sure I keep the wolf from the door. I wonder if being an artist is worth the effort?

I'm tired

I think being an artist creating beautiful objects that others want to buy would be the best job in the world.

[artisticsolution]

Not complaining, mind you. It is usually great...especially first Friday when you can meet the people who buy your stuff...even better when they are drunk...lol.

It's just when you are worried about money you are very concerned with the quality of your work. That can have adverse effects on creativity.

[artisticsolution]

It was something he had made some months before, and now he looked at it as for the first time.

Hi Pluto, Is this an ongoing book you are writing in the forum or is it already written and you are beginning to share? So far so good!

[Pluto]

Hi AS, it is ongoing. I write bits out on here and see how it looks on the page, then later I will try to patch it together. Thanks.

[Pluto]

Was it any good, he thought. He liked the face, and how the hair resembled a cloud, the colour was new too, a change from all that blue. He had scratched into wet paint with the wrong end of a brush, this he had done before with other canvasses, letting the under-paint come through to reveal an image, or a word. But what did it all mean? Of course, he told himself it didn't have to mean anything, and if this were so, would be its strength. No meaning, yes, why not? Meaning was everywhere. And what was a painting at the end of the day? You look and see and think and create, he thought. A painting was like a map, to follow its lines and contours was like having that space inside your head. Still, there didn't seem much there, it had something, yet also seemed too easy, maybe it was - he became confused, stopped thinking, and as the clock rang three, got up and went to collect his son from school. It was cold out, and a slight drizzle had filled the air. A church bell rang in the distance.

As he cycled he thought of titles for an upcoming show, he had many, but just this morning one had popped into his head which seemed quite fitting: Output - it was simple yet fundamental, he told himself. And the input was great, all encompassing, relentless. One needed an output, a way to process all this shit, he thought. The work was his output, simple. He had consumed and re-arranged what was in there to produce something new, something other, something better - even, he told himself. The drizzle had stopped now, and as he stood waiting outside the school, looking up, he saw a plane make its way slowly through the sky.

[Pluto]

He'd spent the night alone, family away, and was happy about that. He watched a film called Violette and had drank some wine, on the films completion, he picked up an old canvas and coloured it white, then dipping his brush in black paint he thought hard what to paint, or rather draw, his eyes fell on the half empty wine bottle, so placing that in front of him he painted it, a quick outline with an elipse showing what wine was left, it was done in a minute or two and looked good. Again he asked himself what was a painting, what could it be, then, tired and wanting sleep, he went to bed.

[Pluto]

Surrounded by the music of the day he became to walk in tune

He saw culture as a great river flowing through the lives of everyone and everything

The river was being directed by a power base with an agenda for earth and its peoples

No longer did politics exist as an agent of transformation but as a simulation of managed appearances. Consensus was now reached through content programming

Within democratic society it was not yet possible for power to use excessive force (in shaping public perception) and so was important to control what people actually thought. This was done through the myriad platforms of a mass communication system complicit with the goals of power

The print media no longer stood as a check and balance of power but was now used by power as a powerful tool in defending and maintaining a constructed status quo.

This he had written early one cold morning in December. Now he turned his focus to the paintings themselves and tried to say how they came about: he had identified the spontaneous creative act as being the main driver of how an image came to be. A sudden urge to get down on canvas that which was now in his head. A recent example was a scene of the collapsed twin towers shrouded in clouds of dust, seen from across the river. Frozen video footage, rendered in pencil on canvas and of which he now contemplated. Should he go further with it and add colour and paint or was it finished, he thought.