The Studios
A voyeur of artist studios, a rule maker, a hypocrite
One of my favorite things to do is peek into the lives and studios of working artists. The art historian in me revels in the lives of artists past and present. I love photos of their messy studios. I was thrilled to tour Rembrandt’s studio in Amsterdam. There is even a magazine now that features working creative women and their workspaces. I don’t have a subscription but maybe someday.
A dear friend who is 81 wanted to go on an artists’ tour yesterday here in our county. She did her homework and downloaded a map and details. We decided on 4 different artists and if she wasn’t too worn out, we would hit a few more.
We saw 4 artists’ studios. The very best one was the first one. Recently moved into a pioneer era brick home. 12-foot ceilings, tall windows, lovely woodwork. Even though they were working on renovating it, it is a house I would love to live in. Her studio was the smallest. The 2nd artist had a new studio, and it was pretty sterile. The 3rd artist had a new home and a studio window with a great view. But the size was small, and it too was sterile. The 4th artist was a young man who had converted his small 2 car garage into his portrait painting studio. No windows, very dark. Also, really sterile, but it serves him well, I guess.
What I do know is most artists in my area are making their living painting from bible stories and Book of Mormon stories. Lots of Jesus renderings. As an atheist and former member of that church, I wasn’t interested in the subjects, but I was liking the first artist’s ability. And there are a multitude of artists here. When I first moved to Utah, I was asked what I do and I would say I am an artist. Almost all responses were “me too!”. Many had taken an art class with a Relief Society meeting. (the women’s auxiliary of the LDS church).
I admit I am an art snob. I was taught by my first instructors at Kent State University that we artists are a different group. Maybe even elite. As a 17-yr old it fed my ego enough to help me create my set of rules that mirrored the art professors heightened view of themselves. I did not thrive at Kent, the mean critiques killed my desire to make art. But as I pursued more art history and eventually another degree from University of Utah, my “rules of the game” were reinforced. There is a certain way to sign a print and a different way to sign a painting. Not naming a painting was lazy. Artist statements must follow a certain form. There were a right and a wrong way to approach a gallery (how would I know this? I never approached a gallery!)
There was a certain amount of blood sweat and tears, tons of rejections and bad critiques before you could be successful. And what was success? Selling paintings, getting in galleries, shows, museums, developing a stable of buyers. Respect, celebrity, becoming a part of art history. Yes, all these strictures were mine to make myself feel better about myself. I can quote the rules of how watercolor works, fat over lean in oil painting, the 10 best design principles, the golden mean, the rule of 3s. I can quote dead artists and tell you that your art is a certain genre and what artists you resemble. I can critique your art in an objective way and hopefully spare your feelings by not being cruel but being factual. I can tell you why a painting works. I can tell you if you insist on ignoring the rules of perspective then be intentional in your rule breaking. I can teach you how to draw what you see, how to find the shapes first and create a focal point and base it on contrast and shapes first. I can tell you to use your biggest brush first to keep you from getting lost in the minute details.
What I cannot tell you is how I have had to struggle against this snobbery to allow myself to enjoy others being happy in their work. I cannot tell you how hypocritical I am by not doing the work that I am compelled to do over these last 5 years. I cannot account for the fact that I let years go by thinking success was something other than what it really is.
Success is being my friend who at 81 is loving to work. Success is finally being satisfied to work out art problems and create for the sake of creating. Success is finding that zone of art making that makes you lose hours of your life as you merrily experiment. Success is knowing you can do art, create and not have to do what others want.
But I still wish I had been feted as an artist, bought and sold paintings to patrons who are awash in coin. To have been judged into the best shows. To have the validation I think we all seek, that I matter, that my art matters.
What I have learned is my art really doesn’t matter in the large complex art world. I will not be feted. I will not have books written about me posthumously or retrospectives of my work in museums. I will not be the change that spurs a movement or a lasting legacy for other artists to aspire. I am simply not that good of an artist. Oh yes many will “like” my art online and tell me I am “so good”. It irks me because it seems a lie said to sooth the animal I am as an artist.
Maybe someday I will be slightly remembered as that mad angry artist who spit out her rules of engagement to all who dared to come near. The only book written will have to be by my own hand and it will not be kind. But there will be lots of pictures!
I have no advice, and I accept no advice for I am who I am, an artist.
