Walking on Eggshells

"Artists don't get down to work until the pain of working is exceeded by the pain of not working"

-Stephen DeStaebler

Eggshell.
Acrylic on masonite 19x22"

  About 10 minutes ago I sat with a panel of two distinguished painters and an art historian to discuss my work over the past few months, which immediately became a discussion of my work over the past few days. As I sat, delivering what by definition would be an artist's statement, but what i would describe as "Why I only like two of my pieces", the three other sets of eyes in the room fluttered over to the piece I whipped together at the end of last week. 

  Continuing with my recent discovery of the almost certain benefits of uncertainty, I painted Eggshell because I needed to capture something, not because I needed to say anything in particular. The apparently misinformed designer in me was baffled by the concept of painting an image that simply cannot be justified with words, But the resurfacing artist in me could feel that I captured what I needed to capture for me and not for anyone else. Yet this thing, that I made for me alone, stood out the most to three individuals that know me the least in our community. This type of critique was so surreal to me. I felt something close to shame in narcissism as they drew meaning from something so personal. I suppose I received a taste of what it feels like to be a commodity as an artist as opposed to distributing a product made of paint and wood. And man does it make me feel guilty.

  I read somewhere that making art is like masturbation; pure self fulfilment. Whereas design is like intercourse. If you're skilled at it, you know that the satisfaction of your partner should come before your own (which is why it's important for designers to masturbate on the side once in a while). Which explains why so many successful artists in every field are said to be profoundly narcissistic. How hard would it be to resist loving yourself if you heard applause every time you finished doing the deed?

The Gift of the Gab.

"Other people have a nationality. The Irish...have a psychosis"

-Brendan Behan

Bar "Service"

      A friend of mine has a way of defining Canadian nationality to the people we meet in Europe that seems to always confuse the inquirer. Of course it sounds more charming coming from a girl with the remnants of a stereotypically Canadian Cape Breton accent, But her point usually circles 'round to say that most Canadians will label themselves as anything but (Until they make it to Europe sporting patriotism in the form of a backpack patch).   
  I remember the bewilderment on the face of a Yugoslavian (an Italian at first introduction) when he was told that generations didn't matter as long as it set you apart. That in Canada, stating that your father's cousin was born in Germany and came to visit one summer is acceptable evidence for an exotic status. 
  I leave for Ireland in about 14 days, for 3 weeks, which is why I've begun to question my own "exotic status". I was raised in Canada, granted by Irish people with Irish values (whatever those might be), but aside from my pasty skin and hints of accent picked up from my mother, I'm pretty used to the cold and end my exclamatory sentences in eh. Still, I remember my own entitlement to nationality as a grade schooler to feature subtle rejections of Canadian things. I can count the times I've been ice skating on one hand and how many times that included a hockey stick on a fist. In grade 3 I was very intent on never truly singing "O Canada". I would stand silently, Lip-syncing only when I was in the teacher's sights. Never anything boisterous, only little things to convince myself I was special.
  I'm in Limbo. I don't feel Canadian, my 9 year old self made sure of that, but I don't feel Irish either. Especially around those travelling from the island itself. I figure then, it'd be best to be good at being both. At least if I spend time with the family that only knew me by name and diaper in Ireland, then I can feel more comfortable convincing myself of what I would have fought for before hitting puberty. And why not milk the Canadian reputation in Europe? I passed my civics exams after all.

Dearest Saint Nicholas.

“Art is like beginning a sentence before you know its ending.” 

-David Bayles

 Art and uncertainty are one in the same. Uncertainty means to have the privilege of sneaking downstairs Christmas morning to unwrap parcel after parcel, experiencing the ecstasy of pleasant surprises as well as the devastation of unpleasant ones.  For those whom embrace uncertainty, every morning is Christmas morning.

Many will argue that foreshadowing can help prepare you for desperate times by subduing the shock that comes with sudden unfortunate events. But it’s when you make predictions or snoop around in closets looking for evidence of what you haven’t yet discovered that forces you to fake a polite smile for every parcel you open, the good and the bad. Thus, shoving every predicted event into a box in the attic reserved for unexciting things.

Of course it’s impossible to accurately predict everything to come, and so there will always be surprises in store for those that choose to leave the house. But in art making it’s quite possible to predict what will come, if the approach itself is predictable. And so the danger of being shoved into the “boring” box is a very real and immediate danger.  The difference between those who make art and those who don’t is that after an artist unwraps his or her parcels that may contain new paintings, poems or music, he or she then wraps them back up and puts them under a different tree, where it will then be deemed a pleasant or unpleasant surprise by someone else. 

I have recently rediscovered the excitement of Christmas mornings (or at least of uncertain ones). A journey, to a place I could never visualize accurately, along with experiences I could never verbalise correctly, is what it took to remind me that my art is a product of the rest of my life, and that maybe my life before Italy wasn’t very good at surprising me. Just like it would be irresponsible to bake a cake without first tasting the batter, it would be very difficult to surprise others with art if you can’t surprise yourself. This may be the simplest lesson to learn from a life-changing experience such as this, but it’s fundamental and easily forgotten in the midst of producing client-based work.

As an illustration student, it is an absolute privilege to be working in a community of mostly fine artists, as what excites me most is that I’ve begun to feel like one again. I began this year knowing exactly what was going to be under the tree for me to unwrap. I had the ambition to create a body of work that required the viewer to read each piece instead of feel it. A series that desperately tried to claim respect from its viewers by pretentiously showering emotional themes with convoluted subject matter.

But in Italy, I can experience overwhelming emotions by the mere sight or sound of very simple things. So I realise that emotions are born from discovery, not premeditation. I know now that the only thing worth having when considering making art is intention. To have the intention to create something emotionally valuable and the Intention to convey something important to you that others may discover later. Being honest with your work and trusting that your personal voice is interesting enough is undeniably important. And so I think the intrigue of “great art” doesn’t lie in paint, clay, words or musical notes but in the intriguing personality that manipulated them. That person is the commodity, and anything they produce is an autograph, a footprint from a life journey worth following.