Forests and Trees

Do I lack conviction? Do I lack passion? What is it that I'm missing? I guess I'm concerned that if I just come right out and say how I feel, I'll be preaching to the choir. The choir is, of course, the general art appreciating public - the gallery frequenting liberals who share much of my way of thinking. So, I must say what I feel, but I must do it in a way that confuses my choir and induces their thought from a different angle. My newest body of work that will be shown in June starts to breach this idea. It is the visual record of a multiplicity of experience in West Africa. One part will reflect my research on child soldiering; the other, my personal experience in The Gambia. The result will be disparate images forced to occupy the same visual space of the rectangular canvas. It is extremely difficult for me to distance myself from my paintings in order to take the role of the viewer unaware of the artist's intentions. I can only imagine how difficult it must be to decipher the information I've painted with no background knowledge of the pieces. To that end, I must make sure that the paintings are all aesthetically valuable - to draw the attention of the viewer and to make them want to learn more about the art. In this way, the form takes precedance over the content, but continues to reinforce it. These two trees, shape and content, must share the space enough to be read as a forest.

nothing about art

Today I know less about art than I ever have before. In fact, the more I learn about art and art making, the less I know what art is and how to make it. Sometimes I yearn for the days when I just worked construction all day and drank from the moment I got off until I passed out, then did it all the next day, too. Those days went by so quickly that I hardly knew they happened at all. Now so much of my time is spent thinking that my mind wanders and I get lost and distracted. As I paint or draw, I think about what it means to make art and why I make it. It's difficult because so much of what I do is emotionally charged - my art is my response to the imagery I confront and a response to the stories I uncover in my research. In a way, what I do is simply report my findings in a visual format. I'm less an artist than a reporter, though a reporter with a toe in conceptual waters. I think that to be considered an artist one must be dedicated to a particular vision and one must constanly produce something that can presented as art in an art-friendly atmosphere. It doesn't hurt to produce "art" in a consistent medium and rarely stray from it until one's popularity wanes. Much of the struggle for me is related to the method of presentation - should I chose to present only paintings or should I create an installation of other works? I guess what I should try to remember is that anything goes with art - what I call "art" is art simply because I self-classify as an "artist". If I make an object and present it in an art atmosphere, then continue to make similar objects for the length of time to be considered a career, I am an artist. I am an artist until I stop making things for people who like art. I am an artist because I feel and I choose to translate that feeling into a medium that the world can understand.

Near-life Experience

The first time I realized I had a near-life experience was last year in the fall. I was visited by a friend from San Fransisco and we went for drinks in my neighborhood. Later that night we went to the park with a couple of tall boys of Pabst and sat on the bench in the shadows and watched people wander by. It was really late, because I realized that moisture was starting to gather in the air in preparation for the morning's dew. My friend and I hadn't spoken for a few moments - the water particles were swirling in the convection currents around the street light in the park - I finished my beer and realized that I felt alive for the first time in a while. Or, at least I came the closest to living that I ever had. That moment - the experience of that moment - was so individual and special that it became etched into my mind as a singularity.
Now I wonder what the perfect conditions are for such instances in the future. Could the experiences be touched off by the appearance of my surroundings? I've often felt that I've seen things just as perfectly as they could be arranged in their space - accidental installations that should only be viewed from one aspect. I tend to think that the naturally occuring composition is only a part of the setting for the near-life experience. The others could include smells or sounds or just a contemplative thought.

After Africa

Now that I have returned, I am at a complete loss. This should be the time when I feel the most inspired - a brain full if images, sounds and smells. I feel like I can do none of it justice. Do I want to continue to connect to the child soldiers? I'm also torn over the actual imagery - do I want to detach myself from the social concerns? If I combine all the images I've collected... the results of my year of research and my trip to The Gambia - the child soldiers, the environment and the people I met; all in one picture plane. Then I could show the process - the process of realization, of clarification, of learning and understanding. But how am I treating these figures by distancing them even further from their own spaces and cramming them together? Perhaps the displacement of the images could act as a metaphor for the helplessness felt in war time situations.
Personal attachment to both the pictures and the people - which is more valid as an experience? Is the connection to the images of child soldiers more valid because it commands a strong emotional response or because the photos cannot physically react to me? Or is the experience of meeting people in their space more important because it does allow for exterior influence? I tend to believe that both experiences are equally valid because my mind and body are the connecting elements - the elements that bind me aesthetically to the imagery and to the action.