The Patron Saint of What no.

"First you will hate Peter. Then you will hate the day you were born."

-Peter Porcal

Passing it on.

  I was thinking the other day about how Maestro Porcal could very well be one of the last remaining scholars on earth. At least one of the last that has devoted his life to sharing wisdom with the peasants rather than lining up in the patent office. Peter says often, to the immediate discomfort of his students, "Peter will die soon. But you, beautiful children, will never die." 
  This is a ruse. I wouldn't be surprised if he had lived through the renaissance itself, conversed with Michelangelo ("Mike" as he calls him), or lectured in greek to a group of budding philosophers. We all love the posh way he dresses but I think he's more suited to a toga when he stands proud in front of his bright-eyed pupils.
  Peter Porcal has been a part of the Florence program since it began about 36 years ago. My high school art teacher was taught by this man in Florence the year I was born, yet she still finds every opportunity to speak highly of him. There's something to be said about a man who chooses to remain in the company of individuals that have such an interesting and sometimes volatile relationship with their emotions. I just don't know what that thing to be said happens to be.
  I do know that he cares for people. Not just the people he's being paid to care for, because I don't think that he gives a flying fart about how much he's being paid, but anybody that could appreciate what he has to offer. 
  We were in Venice for a weekend in October to absorb the history of a sinking city. Peter took us on quite the hike from cathedral to cathedral with barely a seat in between. Most of us are in our early to mid twenties and were exhausted, but Peter kept his composure in spite of the limp he was walking with.
  I remember I was  leaning against the railing on a ferry heading across the canal on the way back to our hostel when he baffled me. He was closer to the middle of the "standing room only" and there were about three passengers between him and myself. One of the passengers was a young blind man of about 25. He seemed to be handling the sway of the boat but you could tell it strained him more than was comfortable. I'm not going to lie and tell you I would've helped him. If he had fallen I would have caught him of course but I must've assumed he was used to being troubled with balance on the ferry and stood aside, cautiously watching, making sure not to stare. This was all in a few moments. Peter reacted so quickly. He was somewhat unstable himself yet in a blur of greyish hair and polite requests, he stabilized the man with a friendly arm. This should have made us all look bad but that's not Peter's style. In fact, I may have been the only one to notice (purely by chance) his subtle act of kindness. I watched as Peter's presence and conversation put a smile on the man's face. My little understanding of Italian told me they were strangers to each other, engaging only in small talk. But I think Peter knows that for some people, small talk can do big things. 
  I hope I don't betray his modesty in writing this but I thought that those who know him would enjoy that simple, character reinforcing story of Peter. And for those that don't know him, it might be nice to know that there are a few people out there that don't abuse their influence. There are people who respect the power they have as a mentor to young people in transition. Even after 36 years of being worshipped.

Everyday on our Knees.

"We have met the enemy and he is us"

-Pogo

Reconsidering rosaries.

  Mass is in service in the congregation of creative people. A church that gives certain sects of christianity a run for their money in number of tears shed and minds lost. There is no priest. There are no pews. Not even a confession booth or delicious little wafers. Only desperate newcomers and somewhat less desperate veterans searching for that sweet moment when inspiration hits. Their bodies convulse and they fall to the ground with hands stretched out, scraping along a canvas or notebook. They may speak in tongues but that's usually a result of a bit too much sacramental wine (A popular ritual). This moment is so fleeting. It's cruelty incarnate. 

  But have you heard the good news? Two men, in the early 1990s wrote a book. It has been my bible as of September 2010, passed on to our Florence community by another David Bayles and Ted Orland witness. The name of the book is "Art & Fear: Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking" and it is good. 

  If your art is an obsession and a lover like it is to most of us, then it would be safe to say that your process doesn't follow reason. Your art is an abusive spouse but it's way too good in bed for you to leave it. Fortunately though, Human rights do not yet apply to your art (however sentient it may seem sometimes) and it is generally accepted to gag and bind it until it meets only your needs. This book is a supportive friend with a knack for tying knots. 

An excerpt from the introduction:

  "THIS BOOK IS ABOUT MAKING ART. Ordinary art. Ordinary art means something like: all art not made by Mozart. After all, art is rarely made by Mozart-like people--essentially (statistically speaking) there aren't any people like that. But while geniuses may get made once-a-century or so, good art gets made all the time." 

-Art & Fear by David Bayles and Ted Orland

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.