December 21, 2009
A few years ago, I seriously considered quitting the art business.
Another venue had opened up in terms of writing. Compared to the trouble
required to maintain an art practice, writing seemed more portable,
convenient, and cheaper. It certainly took up less room. The first years
as a writer produced more promise and results than the emerging years
as a painter. I took it as a sign; time for a change.
What causes artists to finally, give up pursuit of their dreams? Often necessity demands more financial support than an artist's income provides, especially if there are dependants involved. Many juggle more than one job in addition to art-making. Some take temporary hiatus to pay off debts and resume the "real work" later. Others just don't return, discovering better opportunities and stability elsewhere. Health problems, allergies to materials, also play factors. Yet often, it is the enormous reality of how much is truly demanded--emotionally, mentally, spiritually, as well as physically-- of one's inner and outer resources. Passion, commitment, hard work and discipline are great assets. But so too, an ability to endure rejection, failure and success, or indifference. There are fickle and changing art markets, personal rhythms of inspiration and drought. Rottwielers who mistake site sculpture in public places for a hydrant.
In my case, the paintings increased every year while my income and junior one bedroom apartment stayed the same. Sending out manuscripts is easier than the process involved in art production, promotion and exhibition organization. What I hadn't anticipated as well, was slowing down as I got older. I honestly expected to burn through mid-career, knocking off successive paintings now that I was more established--at least in work habits. But the major error was assuming that as I became older and more experienced, I'd weather artistic challenge and vicissitude stronger and better. The disappointment of mailing submission packages on Monday only to have most return by Friday. The frustration of finally, finding a gallery willing to offer representation, yet ultimately unable to sell the work. Obtaining exhibition funding only to pay for dental surgery. I didn't get tougher, but the reverse: discouraged, worn and fatigued.
I'm still painting and writing. What allowed continuity operated beyond conscious choice or intention. After quitting, a period of relief ensued--not just in physical effort, but in expenses calculted from a monthly budget. With extra money normally allocated for art supplies, I planned improvements to my life. Ikea had a nice swivel chair I could now afford. It was certainly time to ditch the futon--for another one. I put a halt to the invasion of stretchers and canvasses my cats used as staircases to their heaven anyway. With the time, usually set aside for painting, I wrote and found it equally rich. I went for longer walks along the harbour. Since there was no need to return so soon, I dawdled by guard rails, belting out the movie theme song from "Titanic." As herring gulls witnessed, "my heart did go on..."
Then the twitching began. By twitching, I mean a restless sense of having time on one's hands even though that time is already accounted for. I started tracing fingers across old splashes of phthlao blue and quinacridone violet on a work table I'd cleaned and cleared. Inspecting a last jar of titanium white, the sight of whipped meringue peaks made me so hungry, I had to snap the lid back on before I did something inappropriate. Sable brushed lured me. I applied their soft tips over my cheeks like Revlon Wild Rose Blush. In back rows of the mind, teensy-weensy ideas began to wave. Soon, the ideas JUST WOULDN'T STOP COMING. Visions of whole paintings tumbled faster than I could scramble for thumbnail sketch pad. It felt similar to stories of people who go on long, overdue vacations--only to be assailed by a flu held in abeyance. The difference here, was an overwhelming, renewed urge to paint. Maybe it's another risk to being an artist; you do it for so long, the sensibility imprints onto genetic code. Maybe it's as simple as taking a break once in a while. Who knows? The truth is, I can't not paint. I tried though.
What causes artists to finally, give up pursuit of their dreams? Often necessity demands more financial support than an artist's income provides, especially if there are dependants involved. Many juggle more than one job in addition to art-making. Some take temporary hiatus to pay off debts and resume the "real work" later. Others just don't return, discovering better opportunities and stability elsewhere. Health problems, allergies to materials, also play factors. Yet often, it is the enormous reality of how much is truly demanded--emotionally, mentally, spiritually, as well as physically-- of one's inner and outer resources. Passion, commitment, hard work and discipline are great assets. But so too, an ability to endure rejection, failure and success, or indifference. There are fickle and changing art markets, personal rhythms of inspiration and drought. Rottwielers who mistake site sculpture in public places for a hydrant.
In my case, the paintings increased every year while my income and junior one bedroom apartment stayed the same. Sending out manuscripts is easier than the process involved in art production, promotion and exhibition organization. What I hadn't anticipated as well, was slowing down as I got older. I honestly expected to burn through mid-career, knocking off successive paintings now that I was more established--at least in work habits. But the major error was assuming that as I became older and more experienced, I'd weather artistic challenge and vicissitude stronger and better. The disappointment of mailing submission packages on Monday only to have most return by Friday. The frustration of finally, finding a gallery willing to offer representation, yet ultimately unable to sell the work. Obtaining exhibition funding only to pay for dental surgery. I didn't get tougher, but the reverse: discouraged, worn and fatigued.
I'm still painting and writing. What allowed continuity operated beyond conscious choice or intention. After quitting, a period of relief ensued--not just in physical effort, but in expenses calculted from a monthly budget. With extra money normally allocated for art supplies, I planned improvements to my life. Ikea had a nice swivel chair I could now afford. It was certainly time to ditch the futon--for another one. I put a halt to the invasion of stretchers and canvasses my cats used as staircases to their heaven anyway. With the time, usually set aside for painting, I wrote and found it equally rich. I went for longer walks along the harbour. Since there was no need to return so soon, I dawdled by guard rails, belting out the movie theme song from "Titanic." As herring gulls witnessed, "my heart did go on..."
Then the twitching began. By twitching, I mean a restless sense of having time on one's hands even though that time is already accounted for. I started tracing fingers across old splashes of phthlao blue and quinacridone violet on a work table I'd cleaned and cleared. Inspecting a last jar of titanium white, the sight of whipped meringue peaks made me so hungry, I had to snap the lid back on before I did something inappropriate. Sable brushed lured me. I applied their soft tips over my cheeks like Revlon Wild Rose Blush. In back rows of the mind, teensy-weensy ideas began to wave. Soon, the ideas JUST WOULDN'T STOP COMING. Visions of whole paintings tumbled faster than I could scramble for thumbnail sketch pad. It felt similar to stories of people who go on long, overdue vacations--only to be assailed by a flu held in abeyance. The difference here, was an overwhelming, renewed urge to paint. Maybe it's another risk to being an artist; you do it for so long, the sensibility imprints onto genetic code. Maybe it's as simple as taking a break once in a while. Who knows? The truth is, I can't not paint. I tried though.
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