I looked up “showing” in the
on-line Cambridge Dictionary, and one of its definitions was “an opportunity
for the public to see something”.
That seems pretty simple and
straightforward, deceptively so for an activity that inspires many conflicting
emotions in me. You see I’m someone who
abhors having myself or any of my creations become the object of public
attention. I am a middle child, having
been preceded in the birth order by both a boy and a girl, and discovered very
early on that attention would be lavished on my older siblings, who were
achieving great things in the big world, while I could stand idly by, slack-jawed
and silent. I learned that I could
disappear in the mob if I kept quiet and pursued my devilry outside the compass
of adult scrutiny. I never felt that
being ignored was being neglected.
Instead, I grew up running wild in our suburban community, fleeing the
house whenever the opportunity presented itself and returning exhausted and
dirt-covered in the evening. When restricted
to the house, I would retreat to the basement to construct models of antique
cars, WWII fighter planes and historic ships, perform experiments with my kids’
chemistry set or fry up some zoofie goofies.
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| Never enough Plastigoop! |
Later on, I found that
solitary pursuits suited me perfectly. I
would spend hours in my room reading books or in the basement honing my
rudimentary painting skills at my rickety easel or writing short stories on an
old manual typewriter with an extremely parched ribbon. I did not feel myself an outcast. No.
Though I was never the center of attention (nor did I desire to be such
for that matter), I thought of myself, perhaps delusionally so, as somewhat
popular, enjoying the loose support of a wide network of affable classmates and
more significant relations with a smaller, more intimate circle of
friends. Though rather limited in scope,
I participated in sports and clubs and even voluntarily acted in two school
dramatic productions. But, all the same,
I came to believe that my most valuable achievements and contributions would
result from private, solitary exertions, that being a team player was akin to
being hobbled and that self-validation could not be attained through the praise
of others.
After my schooling was over
and I found employment, my interest in group activities, both professionally
and personally, diminished further. At
work, I would shoulder almost exclusively the responsibility for tackling a
project, only reluctantly relegating small portions of labor to my staff or
coworkers – not exactly the ideal employee by today’s standards. Socially, my significant outlets were my wife
and family and a very restricted group of friends. I’ll relate a characteristic event that
occurred after several years on the job.
When requested to dress more formally by our unit head, I purchased five
gray suits along with a stack of solid white dress shirts. I had very little interest in my appearance,
my only concerns being making coordinating my outfit each morning a simple
matter and a desire that my appearance would be so bland that I could navigate
the streets, the subways and the halls of my office virtually unnoticed. I wasn’t antisocial. No, I would say asocial is more accurate. Hey, but everyone can’t be a leader and a
star. If you’re putting on an opera, you
still need folk to be in the chorus… or better yet offstage pulling the rope to
raise the curtain.
So after subjecting you to
that bit of self-analysis, I don’t think you should be too surprised to learn
that I became a visual artist. Art was a
solitary pursuit, something I could explore in private without the support,
cooperation or interference of my parents or others. Initially, I worked with standard pencils on
lined legal pads, only upgrading to oil and acrylic paints on canvas once I
earned a small stipend from my paper route.
As I made progress, becoming more accomplished and facile over time, my
satisfaction was personal. Suffering
perhaps from a mild case of tunnel vision, I never thought of art as a public
activity or considered displaying my work for others to see. For me, it was all about developing a skill
set while engaging in intellectual exploration.
I admit this was truly shortsighted of me, but, let’s face it, often
people initiate a course of action without considering where it will lead. (Ever hear of the medical student who quits
the program after discovering he or she can’t stand the sight of blood?)
In college, art students did have to display their work for
public critique, but the discussions were very informal and extemporaneous and
did not cause me much discomfit. I
recall actually enjoying examining the work of my classmates and hearing what
they had to say about the images we presented for consideration. In truth, I could have gone through my entire undergraduate schooling without
ever having displayed my work in any venue larger than those small classroom
critiques.
But, during my last year of
undergraduate study, I took a great course with Howardena Pindell in which the
students would only paint on large scale canvases that we constructed
ourselves. Also taking that class was
Christina Carlson, a talented artist who I had seen around the art department
for years but didn’t know very well.
Every now and then, Christina would approach me and suggest that I
should have a solo show at the students’ union.
I always responded in the same positive manner: the possibility of showing
sounded interesting and I would try to look into it. Actually, I wasn’t against showing my work, but, between keeping up with my schoolwork,
fulfilling my work-study obligations and squeezing in time to see my
girlfriend, I wasn’t motivated to seek out additional commitments. At that time, I felt pretty confidant about
my art, having established a personal style of painting that reflected my
individual outlook and produced fairly reliable results, but I really wasn’t
too sure why I would want to exhibit my work.
Making sales wasn’t a real possibility, and I couldn’t see a show at the
students’ union as a stepping stone in my future career. So whenever Christina encountered me, I would
do what I do best: deflect. Finally, one
day she had had enough of my prevaricating.
Christina, who was definitely a force to be reckoned with, informed me
that after class that day I was going to the students’ union to schedule my
show. Not only that, but she actually escorted
me to the location, introduced me to the individual in charge and observed our
interaction. Thank you, Christina. I’m still in awe.
So I was having a solo show
and, naturally, would be hosting an “opening” to kick it off. For those of you who are not in the know, an
opening is a brief event of a couple of hours duration held in an exhibition
space at which the artist-on-display lures friends, relatives and even complete
strangers to come see his or her work with an offering of free food and
drink. At the university, the approach
to these student openings varied greatly, ranging from the very proper to the
wildly bohemian. I envisioned something
very informal, maybe stationing myself in the gallery space with a couple of
bottles of cheap wine and a sleeve of plastic cups while an odd assortment of student
passers-by would stop in to share a drink with me and grunt at my paintings –
you know, low-key and kind of hip.
In truth, exhibiting work is
absolutely necessary. I’m sure that
curators would assert that exhibitions allow for the selection and organization
of artwork in such a manner as to present a conceptual interpretation of the
material, and I would agree with that.
In fact, attending a very successful show can be a revelatory
experience.
But, more importantly,
artwork cannot be fully experienced in reproduction, regardless of the quality
of the image. Detail is lost. Texture cannot be communicated. There is no sense of scale; a 10 X 12 inch watercolor
occupies the same space on the page as a 10 foot long mural. The problem with photography is that choices
have to be made before a picture is taken.
In what light will the photo be taken?
Will the photo stress warm or cool tones? How should the image be exposed? How sharp should the focus be? If you’ve ever performed a search for a
specific painting on the internet and been presented with a screen of multiple
images of the work, you will know what I’m talking about. Every image looks different, sometimes so
different that it’s hard to believe they are actually of the same work. Years ago, the standard method of recording
artwork was on tungsten film transparencies, and, strangely enough, I usually
felt that in that format the reproductions actually enhanced my own artwork. I guess that whatever distortion was taking
place was working in my favor. Today,
it’s expected that artists will provide high resolution digital photographs of
their artwork for examination or publication.
Though digital SLR cameras allow for an almost unlimited array of image
settings and photo editors permit users to make substantial adjustments to
pictures once downloaded to a computer, I find that current reproductions of my
artwork never satisfy me. Regardless of
my own personal travails, trust me when I assert that no reproduction can
accurately convey the complexities and nuances of an original artwork. So I hope we can all agree that it’s
essential to view art firsthand.
Otherwise we may as well raze all the world’s museums.
Openings are another matter
altogether. Having given this subject
some thought of late, I recognize that some art forms are necessarily
public. Dance, music and theater, for
instance, are about performance and customarily require an audience. The dancer, musician or actor receives an
immediate reaction to his or her efforts, hopefully enjoying a moment of enthusiastic
applause – maybe even a standing ovation.
The inherent communion between artist and spectator is unavoidable. For other disciplines, the relationship
between artist and audience is more tenuous.
Authors, poets, painters and sculptors perform their “magic” offstage,
often devoting many hours of solitary labor to their creations, and the
appreciation of their art is not dependent on their presence. Imagine if, to truly experience The Brothers Karamazov, Dostoyevsky had
to be present, sitting perhaps at our bedsides while we read in the dim glow of
a nightstand light. We’d nod gratefully
at him from time to time. “Nice touch
there, Fyodor. Nice touch.” No. Obviously,
the presence of the non-performing artist is completely unnecessary to the
comprehension and enjoyment of his or her work.
But I suppose that many a
non-performing artist felt a bit jealous of his or her more demonstrative
brethren and desired a platform at which to experience immersion in the
soothing balm of public admiration. So
writers do public readings and artists have openings. And I would have to be a complete innocent
not to recognize that these events also have the very commercial purpose of
gathering a large number of receptive supporters to encourage sales. I guess, if you’re looking for a little
attention, you’re going to have to provide a bit of fanfare.
So why would I, a retiring
man who withers under the scrutiny of the public gaze and enjoys no commercial
potential, pack up the accumulated creations of years of solitary labor in a
truck, transport them to a location for public display and invite a community
of family, friends and associates to join me in celebrating them? Even I would have to question my
motives. It comes down to this. For many, many years I have persisted without
interruption in the pursuit of my artistic vision. My own exertions and the cost of materials
and other incidentals could be dismissed (though the hours I’ve spent
cloistered in my studio away from my family do represent a more substantial
sacrifice). But, I suppose, I have no
choice but to file all of that away under the general heading: “Water under the
Bridge”. No, there’s something
else. I don’t know how to state this
without sounding very egotistical, so I’ll just blurt it out. The work itself asserts its own mandate. I can’t say that my paintings are
groundbreaking masterpieces that will change the course of art history, but,
whatever the small victories I’ve accomplished on canvas, I feel a
responsibility to the work to let it be seen.
I’ve never talked to any fellow artist about this feeling, but I suspect
it may be a fairly common consideration.
I see “exhibiting” as a sort
of necessary repercussion of creation. In
grad school, studio art majors were actually required to participate in three semester-end
reviews at which students presented recent work to the department’s professors
and student body for public consideration. There you were, standing before a
large assembly of people, attempting to defend your work against observations
and criticism – that, I must admit, were often quite eccentric. That was certainly a baptism by fire. Since then, intermittently over the years,
I’ve felt compelled to submit images of my work for inclusion in publications,
participate in group shows and on rare occasion put my paintings on display in
a solo show – regardless of my personal reservations. The last time I exhibited my work alone I opted
to forego an opening - much to the chagrin of the show’s organizers. I just
didn’t feel up to it.
So, all of this talk about
showing must be leading somewhere. And,
yes, for the first time in seven years, I will be having a solo exhibition of
my work. This time, my show will be at
the Unison Arts
Center and Sculpture Garden Hudson Valley Hudson Valley
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| Just to whet your appetite... |
