November 20, 2011
Non-artists often tell me I’m lucky because I’m doing what I want to do.
Generally, I agree with that. Without art, I’m just another library
worker obscured by rows of books. However these remarks usually come
from individuals who made choices in their own lives that lacked
fulfillment, or else they have yet to discover what it is they really
want to do. When people consider my artist life as an alternative to
their frustrated one, it might not be art they actually long to pursue,
so much as something authentic they can finally believe in, enough to
devote their time. To them, an artist represents freedom, a sense of
identity and meaningful vocation. How does one find a balance between
sharing the reality of being an artist without discouraging those
interested from gaining their own experience? If there’s real
unhappiness or crisis in front of me, I’m careful about my response. I
want to tell the truth: my decision to be an artist was a good one. I’d
recommend it to anybody who feels compelled or curious to explore what
it has to offer. An involvement with art provides benefits on many
levels. From sheer pleasure to the interpretation of universal truths
shared with others– art is useful. I would never deny its potential for
enrichment to those contemplating a change or seeking answers. But my
opinion is biased because art happens to be right for me.
Romantic notions, even glamour surrounds the mystique of being an artist. Refugees from ordinary life do arrive at industrial lofts to follow a dream or at least their version of one. I’ve encountered neighbours who enjoyed being around artists and creative energy, more than they cared to produce work themselves. Others, timid and anxious at first, eventually thrived when being part of an artistic community motivated and supported their efforts. For 14 yrs. I rented lofts in warehouses and lived illegally in all of them, including one apparently owned by the Mafia. For several years, my wardrobe was totally black– the berets as well. I met new people, got exposed to their work, was invited to parties and events. On the surface, it sounds stimulating, adventuresome, more fun than say, being controlled or defined by other peoples’ rules, demands or values. But the real reason I lived in my studio was economic. I couldn’t afford a separate workplace from my residence while the housing I could afford was limited or ill-suited for large scale explorations. Those lofts also had safety issues, were noisy, and frequently stank of gag-worthy solvents. Black clothes were not a fashion statement but a laundry one. It was just easier to dump everything in one wash without paying attention to special garment care. Besides, I thought time wasted on fussing over what to wear was better spent art-making, especially on filthy premises. Invitations to many parties occurred by default. They thundered either above, below, next door or down the hall from me. Smoke, drink and drugs were a given which was ironic because to this day, I still don’t smoke, drink or do drugs– and didn’t then. In fact, party animal here, preferred (gasp!) sleep more than any chance to talk over loud music, or the privilege of feigning appreciation for an improv band. Longevity in such environments depended on one’s intentions and/or the depth of a commitment. I must emphasize: not every dedicated artist has gone this route. No law decrees loft-living a prerequisite towards becoming a “real” artist. Artists work anywhere they can find space. They may rent studios with others for workspace only and have separate home addresses– with or without roommates as well– or make do with the living room in an apartment or house. However for those who sleep in commercial spaces, unless there’s a good reason to stay, the deprivations alone will drive out tenants who can better research their options elsewhere. If the externals of bohemian life demand fortitude even from the serious artist, imagine the inner, psychic, soul-hammering challenges provoked in tandem with a creative process.
Artists do what they must in order to facilitate various stages in their career. This may involve a grand gesture, or leap of faith into unknown, untested territory. It could also be a quiet, but no less potent resolve to finally allow themselves space and time to practice their craft, without disturbance or distraction from significant others they have no desire to abandon for the sake of art. Whatever the act, it’s importance can change over time or go in another direction. Even flamboyant artists have returned to lives that look an awful lot like the one an earnest, yet vulnerable seeker is anxious to leave. Although I still enjoy the vitality of a colourful neighbourhood like Queen St. West, and the eccentric behaviour of its denizens, other factors inspire me to work now. Many artists who have been at it for a while lead unassuming lives that pretty much resemble everyone else’s. At least on the outside. They have grandkids, take calcium supplements and wear orthotics. They’re too old to cope without plumbing. The difference is what they bring back to the places they left and what continues to go out into the world from their endeavors.
A group from my co-op came to my last solo show. Astonished at the amount of work, they never knew this was what I did, as one woman put it, “in that little apartment.” Ultimately, what I’d reveal to someone who compares their dissatisfied life to mine, is that truly, I am quite dull by any social standards. Other than art, I don’t do much or go anywhere, except for my job. If they’re still attracted to some fantasy about what constitutes an artist’s life, I’d suggest they try making art first. Give creative expression a chance to address the source of malcontent. If allowed, the process does have the potential to guide and inform them towards what is genuinely needed for their own unique situation.
Romantic notions, even glamour surrounds the mystique of being an artist. Refugees from ordinary life do arrive at industrial lofts to follow a dream or at least their version of one. I’ve encountered neighbours who enjoyed being around artists and creative energy, more than they cared to produce work themselves. Others, timid and anxious at first, eventually thrived when being part of an artistic community motivated and supported their efforts. For 14 yrs. I rented lofts in warehouses and lived illegally in all of them, including one apparently owned by the Mafia. For several years, my wardrobe was totally black– the berets as well. I met new people, got exposed to their work, was invited to parties and events. On the surface, it sounds stimulating, adventuresome, more fun than say, being controlled or defined by other peoples’ rules, demands or values. But the real reason I lived in my studio was economic. I couldn’t afford a separate workplace from my residence while the housing I could afford was limited or ill-suited for large scale explorations. Those lofts also had safety issues, were noisy, and frequently stank of gag-worthy solvents. Black clothes were not a fashion statement but a laundry one. It was just easier to dump everything in one wash without paying attention to special garment care. Besides, I thought time wasted on fussing over what to wear was better spent art-making, especially on filthy premises. Invitations to many parties occurred by default. They thundered either above, below, next door or down the hall from me. Smoke, drink and drugs were a given which was ironic because to this day, I still don’t smoke, drink or do drugs– and didn’t then. In fact, party animal here, preferred (gasp!) sleep more than any chance to talk over loud music, or the privilege of feigning appreciation for an improv band. Longevity in such environments depended on one’s intentions and/or the depth of a commitment. I must emphasize: not every dedicated artist has gone this route. No law decrees loft-living a prerequisite towards becoming a “real” artist. Artists work anywhere they can find space. They may rent studios with others for workspace only and have separate home addresses– with or without roommates as well– or make do with the living room in an apartment or house. However for those who sleep in commercial spaces, unless there’s a good reason to stay, the deprivations alone will drive out tenants who can better research their options elsewhere. If the externals of bohemian life demand fortitude even from the serious artist, imagine the inner, psychic, soul-hammering challenges provoked in tandem with a creative process.
Artists do what they must in order to facilitate various stages in their career. This may involve a grand gesture, or leap of faith into unknown, untested territory. It could also be a quiet, but no less potent resolve to finally allow themselves space and time to practice their craft, without disturbance or distraction from significant others they have no desire to abandon for the sake of art. Whatever the act, it’s importance can change over time or go in another direction. Even flamboyant artists have returned to lives that look an awful lot like the one an earnest, yet vulnerable seeker is anxious to leave. Although I still enjoy the vitality of a colourful neighbourhood like Queen St. West, and the eccentric behaviour of its denizens, other factors inspire me to work now. Many artists who have been at it for a while lead unassuming lives that pretty much resemble everyone else’s. At least on the outside. They have grandkids, take calcium supplements and wear orthotics. They’re too old to cope without plumbing. The difference is what they bring back to the places they left and what continues to go out into the world from their endeavors.
A group from my co-op came to my last solo show. Astonished at the amount of work, they never knew this was what I did, as one woman put it, “in that little apartment.” Ultimately, what I’d reveal to someone who compares their dissatisfied life to mine, is that truly, I am quite dull by any social standards. Other than art, I don’t do much or go anywhere, except for my job. If they’re still attracted to some fantasy about what constitutes an artist’s life, I’d suggest they try making art first. Give creative expression a chance to address the source of malcontent. If allowed, the process does have the potential to guide and inform them towards what is genuinely needed for their own unique situation.
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