October 25, 2014
This post documents the thought process behind the third presentation format for the loose leaf journal I am creating during the MCP501 module of my First Year Project. My First Year project is titled “Self Portrait of a Female with Epilepsy”. A visual documentation of the process is not currently available, but will follow in the next weeks, and can then be found in the MCP501 Gallery. The journal pages are the initial steps in a series of self portraits which will take non-traditional approaches to the materials and techniques of painting, serve as a basis and archive of thoughts, images and resources which contribute to the various visual and written components of my First Year project, and are a key element in the presentation of the visual component of the project.
In my September-October 2014 Monthly Blog Post I described two presentation formats for the loose leaf journal pages and created two galleries documenting the process behind the creation of those pieces. So, why create a third presentation format and is it necessary?
I felt it necessary to create an additional, physical-experienced based presentation because the presentation of the pages in the piece “Wanderland”, which is meant as a way for the viewer to physically experience the pages, is very limited in who, how, when and where it can be experienced. It is a very site specific piece, therefore I am seeking with “Just Between Me and You” to create a piece with a more flexible mode of presentation.
I intend to bring the piece “Look In Glass” to the Winter Residency in New York City this January. While I find this particular presentation format has its own strengths in how it addresses both the issues raised in my project as well as how it visually presents the journal pages, I also believe it to be just one way of understanding and looking at the work and issues which are raised. The narrowness of its presentation is a part of what I am addressing in my project, which is the limitations in our understanding of the “truth” of something, limitations which we often place upon ourselves because we convince ourselves that the knowledge we have is all there is to know. I do not see “Look In Glass” as a stand alone piece. For it to reveal more of the “truth” it must exist in relation to the physical presentation and experiencing of the journal pages; therefore “Look In Glass” will be presented in New York City in conjunction with “Just Between Me and You”.
Like both “Wanderland” and “Look In Glass” the presentation of the journal pages in “Just Between Me and You” allude to the writings of Lewis Carroll in Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland and Through The Looking-Glass. Like both previously conceived pieces the emphasis on how the pages are presented in “Just Between Me and You” lies in the intimacy of the presentation. The pages are not presented in a way in which comfortably more than a single individual can experience them at a time. The experience is kept between the artist and a solitary viewer. Similar to the format of “Wanderland” the pages are made available to the viewer to grab hold of in his or her hands and examine. Unlike the experience of “Wanderland” which physically challenges the viewer by sending him or her on a journey through a space in which the pages have been randomly and chaotically hung so that accessing all the pages and examining them closely may or may not be possible for every viewer; “Just Between Me and You” is a quieter, less physically challenging presentation. It is a presentation that is accessible to every viewer as long as he or she is willing to take the time and make the effort to sit down, pick up, hold and closely examine each page of the journal.
“Just Between Me and You” is “Wanderland” in a box.
It is a box whose exterior is swathed in the black, glitter vinyl that covers the floor and forms the pathway the viewer follows through “Wanderland”. The interior of the box, its walls, are covered with the soft and silencing black felt which covered the walls of “Wanderland”. The box sits on a table in a slightly darkened room. A spotlight shines on the table so that the viewer is provided sufficient light by which to closely look at and examine each page. The viewer takes a seat at the table in front of the box. The box is closed, tied up like a gift package with the same Red "Classic 10" 100% Mercerized Cotton crochet thread used in “Wanderland” to connect and suspend the pages. Attached to the string is a note to the viewer “Open me”.
If the viewer chooses to follow his or her curiosity, he or she will untie the thread and remove the lid of the box. Inside the box he or she will then find the pages of the journal, wrapped in the black tulle from which the pages were suspended in “Wanderland”. Clipped to the bundle with a silver binder clip, like the clips used in “Wanderland” to connect the pages to the red thread, is another note. On the second note the viewer will read “Unwrap me”.
Should the viewer decide to continue on this journey and unwrap the bundle of pages, he or she will encounter a third note on top of the pile of pages. This note instructs the viewer to “Look at me”.
At this point the viewer has been given full access and permission by the artist to hold, look, closely encounter and physically interact with the pages on his or her own terms. Should he or she work his or her way completely through the ~100 pages, at the bottom of the bundle, between the last page and the tulle, he or she will find a fourth and final note: “Put me back together. Keep this just between me and you.”
Ideally the viewer has spent the time to look at all the pages and after reading the final note re-wraps the pages, places them and the notes back in the box, replaces the lid, re-ties the thread. But that is beyond my control. As the artist I only provide the instructions in the notes, it is up to the viewer to choose to follow them or not.
Concerning the order of the pages in the box: unlike the random hanging of the pages in the “Wanderland” installation, I intend to place the pages in the box in the order in which they were created. However once the piece is in the control of the viewers this order most likely will become disrupted. It will be interesting to see how “out of order” the pages become as multiple viewers interact with it.
It is my intention that the viewer encounter this piece prior to “Look In Glass”. I want to emphasize the value of the close, physical encounter with the artwork over the distanced, mental encounter the viewer has with the cropped, shifting and altered digital recording of the pages confined within the mirrored box. In addition, the physical encounter with the actual pages in “Just Between Me and You” challenges the viewer to make the effort, give his or her time and share a physical space with the pages. How willing is he or she to do this? How much is he or she willing to give of his or herself? How much of his or herself is he or she willing to invest to become a part of the art?
Then, after this experience, the viewer moves on to “Look in Glass”. Now the viewer is no longer given the option to choose how much or how far he or she wants to go on this journey. The light emanating from the box will draw the viewer closer to it. He or she will glance into the box. How long he or she looks is still up to the viewer. But even if it is only a split second, when he or she glances into the box he or she will see not only the pages but also his or her reflection on top of the pages, alongside the pages, inside the box. He or she has become a part of the piece. The self portrait has become a portrait.
October 28, 2014
This post is an example of part of the thought process behind my approach to the art I create. Often when a question or thought enters my head I deal with it first by way of an internal conversation which might last for weeks, months, or even years. Eventually I might even begin writing out those thoughts, in a notebook I am keeping, or even in a document on my computer. Sometimes the notes are incorporated into an artist statement, essay for an exhibition or a blog post such as this. But mostly I keep what I write to myself. The thoughts I am presenting here are relevant to my First Year Project because the question I am addressing came up again recently, this time during my most recent Skype conversation with my studio advisor, Laura Gonzalez. I began to think again about how I define myself and my work and why I chose this definition. As I explored the Drawing Research Network’s website and the journal TRACEY I asked myself, how do I respond to drawing that is only drawing? This modifier, “only” is not meant in anyway as a negative or value judgement of drawing as an art form. In fact, this blog post and website documenting my process can be seen as a drawing.
The “question” came up again recently. It is a question I’ve been dealing with as long as I have been making art. What are you? Are you a painter, sculptor, or do you just draw? It is not a question that is just asked of me by another. It is a question I have spent years asking myself. It is a question I often think the art I make is asking me. Who are you and what am I?
Looking back, each time I believe to have answered the question, it rears its ugly head once more. If it had been answered, it wouldn’t always keep popping up, right?
Well, yes, and no. The thing is, there is no clear or obvious answer. Even when I believe that I have answered it for myself, deep down I remain an atheist artist. To the one “god” who is painting, the one”god” who is sculpture, the one “god” who is drawing, or video, or new media, or performance, or text, or whatever: sorry, for me you just don’t exist. For me there is no council of creative-gods seated on Mount Olympus to whom one must dedicate oneself, one’s art.
That said, I will contradict myself by declaring “I am a painter”.
Let me explain. It is not necessarily that I am denying the existence of the gods of paint, sculpture, drawing, new, performance, time-based, and text-based media; what I am denying is a personal belief in a hierarchy of the ways in which we view, talk about, approach and make art. Instead of building a temple on a hill and worshiping one god, or twelve gods, I have chosen to worship no gods. Instead I’ve chosen to destroy the temples that others have built before me, declaring them uninhabited and the deification of specific art forms obsolete. The walls that close off and separated one sacred art form from another have been torn down- and not by me, others have been doing this for a long time, perhaps for as long as humans have been creating art. In place of the walls remains only space, space in which a fluidity exists. One form flows into, interacts with, and responds to another. Reality is fluidity of definition. There are no gods of any one form, and there is no god of all forms. There are only forms, unconstrained by boundaries, by which the artist chooses to express herself.
This fluidity of terms and definitions, denial of a hierarchy of media and forms does not exclude the possibility or existence of self-definition by the artist in terms of a single art form. Existing forms are unconstrained by boundaries, but the boundaries do exist. However, the role of the artist is to choose to interact with those boundaries, form a relationship between the boundaries and her art either through transcendence or by remaining within. This is much like the discussion today in the area of gender identity. Biological genders do exist. And within those biological genders there is at times an unspecific biological gender which occurs. In the past when this “unclarity of gender” arose others, doctors and parents, would decide which biological gender would be medically assigned to the child. In recent time we have begun to understand that gender is something quite complex, composed of many factors beyond the mere biological, factors which an infant and sometimes even an adult cannot express or share with others outside of the self. We are opening ourselves to a discussion and understanding of what gender identity means. Transcendence of the traditional definition based upon biological “norms” is becoming the norm. Fluidity of identity based on self determination has entered the picture and destroyed the plane on which it was formed.
Some people declare their gender identity as it is expressed by the biological/physiological gender closest to their hormone levels or sexual organs. Others declare their gender identity as it is expressed by the gender closest to what is felt in their “hearts and minds”. What we understand as “gender” is something very individualized and personal despite the boundaries placed on it by biology, because it is determined by factors within the mind. When an artist choses to define herself as an artist of a particular media, she does so not just based on criteria which traditionally define a particular media, she does so based on criteria which defines the term within herself, within her art.
For me this means I call myself a painter because within my heart and mind the manner in which I approach the art I make I do in terms of what I consider “the painterly”. The painterly is within my frame of reference one which involves a layering process. This does not mean that all painting requires a physical layering of traditional painting media in reference and relation to traditional painterly themes of color, brushstroke, form, or tone. Those things are a part of it, but only one aspect. Painting and the “painterly” for me refer to an approach to other media, other materials, to concepts, forms of art, even to life. An artist can paint with words, musical notes, rhythms, movements. This is not a new idea, and definitely not original to me. Does it lessen the value of painting by opening up the definition of “painterly”? I do not believe so. By opening the definition, one opens painting to other media, materials, art forms and influences beyond art. This expansion in the terminology, this evolution is what keeps painting a living art form.
Does this mean that the painter who choses to work within the boundaries of the traditional definition is working with a dead art form? No. The opening of the definition gives the artist the freedom of choice, and choice is what invigorates life. I chose to work beyond the traditional boundaries of painting by focusing on the approach I have to looking at, thinking about and describing what it is I am working with. In exercising my freedom to choose, using the approach of painterly layering within my work, I am staying within the definition of “painter” even if my materials, techniques and media go beyond the traditional boundaries. The boundary that I am often crossing tends to cause the aforementioned question of identity to be raised It is the boundary that traditionally separates painting from drawing.
Are you a painter, or do you draw? The traditionally drawing is seen as the simplest and most efficient means of visually communicating an idea. It isn’t about the materials or techniques, it isn’t about the mark. It is about the simplicity. It is about the efficiency. I do use materials and techniques traditionally associated with drawing. I do make marks in a manner traditionally associated with drawing. Perhaps there are times when what I am doing is the simplest and most efficient means by which I can communicate an idea, and at those times, yes, I am drawing. Most of us do draw at one point or another. As children we draw first, painting comes much later in our development. The finger and tempera paints used by a five year old seldom result in a painting, they remain drawing done in a painting medium. Whatever media or techniques I am using, rarely is what I am doing about simplicity or efficiency.
Drawing is the skeleton of the creative process, and skeletons are complex structures. Drawing provides the bones, the structure that holds everything together. Painting is the cells, building up layers upon layers, simultaneously the building blocks of the bones and material which clings to that structure and creates form. The relationship between form and space, including the relationship between cells, between cells and bones, that is the area of the sculptural. Together they form a body called art.
At times I find myself looking at drawings, defined as such either by tradition or by their creator and I think: “that is creepy”.
Why is drawing creepy?
One of my favorite films is An American Werewolf in London (1981). It is the retelling of a classic, simple story. What makes it stand out in the history of filmmaking, and for which it won an Academy Award is the make up. Throughout the film the main character’s [David] friend Jack shows up to warn him that unless he kills himself he will turn into a werewolf and kill others, turning them into the “walking dead” just like Jack. With each visit Jack’s body progresses in its decay. At first we are only shown Jack’s injuries sustained by the initial werewolf attack. But then things begin to get gruesome when he shows up and the flesh has begun rotting from his face. A State of creepiness is reached when that flesh has fallen away, revealing the bones, his skull, beneath the skin. When people break an arm or a leg we usually are not repulsed by the break, unless the bone breaks through the flesh and reveals itself. Then we might say: “that really creeps me out”. And so it is with drawing, when the bones are revealed things get “creepy”.
This is what makes drawing at times uncomfortable . It might be the simplest and most efficient way to communicate an idea visually because it shows us what the world is made of, but it can show us more than we want to see. Drawing gets to the bones of the matter. It does not wrap the idea in a protective layer one must carefully peel back. It does not sugar coat the idea. It presents it in a straight on, head forward manner. And just like it is possible to paint in any media, technique, or material; it is possible to draw in any of these too. Drawing slithers its way across the creative spectrum, creeping its way into the work to provide the supporting structure for the ideas being presented. Without the creepiness of drawing, the layers of painting, the relationship of space in sculpture, the language in text, the pixels of video, the space between seconds in time-based work, the relationships between movement in dance would fall into a pile of goo just like Jack’s flesh. Drawing is always a part of all creative endeavors.
So why don’t we all just call ourselves draftspersons?
Just because drawing is in all we do creatively does not mean it is the defining element of what we do. For me the element of layering, both physically and conceptually is a determining factor of all I do, and it is what I consider to be the elemental factor in painting. That’s why I call myself a painter and not a drawer. I do draw. I draw a lot. Sometimes I make things that are drawings, not paintings. These things, whatever they may be composed of technically, are drawing because the emphasis is on the structure, and not the layers. From a personal viewpoint while I tend to pick out the structure supporting a work, and often find myself analyzing the drawn elements in any given creative work, the element which makes my heart sing, which keeps my attention and makes me want to fall into the work of art, is the painterly element, the layering. Bones are hard, and sometimes they can be sharp. Who wants to fall into a pile of bones? That would be kind of creepy. But the layers of fleshy, soft cells, squishy and warm, inviting like a pool of warm salt water, now that is something to fall into!
Just as in all areas of study there are specialist, we need specialists in drawing. We need the draftspersons to focus on the structure behind the art. Therefore someone working with materials and techniques that might traditionally place the art she creates in the realm of sculpture in a way where the structural element is the focus, the subject of the conversation, can call herself a “drawer” or “draftsperson”. A filmmaker, dancer, playwright, composer, musician, etc. called such by traditional definition can be by personal definition a “draftsperson”. This does by no means destroy or negate the traditional definitions of these art forms, but expands the possibilities within them by opening the definition to recognition of the role drawing plays in every artistic practice. I’ve identified the role drawing plays in what I do and I have found a definition of who I am and what I make that suits me. Now it is just a matter of waiting for the day the question will come up again, because I am certain it will. And I won’t let the question creep me out.
December 11, 2014
Photos and videos of the process and installation of these works can be found in the gallery section. Follow the links provided in the work titles. The images are in chronological order, so please scroll through to see the images and video from December 6.
Essential to the realization of Wanderland and Look In Glass was their presentation on Saturday, December 6, 2014 at my home-studio. For Wanderland it was the cummulation of its existence, it is a site-specific installation bound both by concept and aesthetics to the ground floor hallway of my home. Look In Glass, while not a site-specific piece, is nonetheless eternally tied in its conception to the physical presentation of the journal pages, the main component of Wanderland. Wanderlandcannot exist without Look In Glass and Look In Glass cannot fully exist without the journal pages, but it can exist without Wanderland as long as the journal pages are physically present in some form.
Despite the existence of Look In Glass as a transportable object, conceivable as a ‘stand alone’ work of art; despite the possibility of the journal pages slideshow being presented as a film or video independent of the mirror box, either of these presentation formats would result in Look In Glass loosing much in way of its intended meaning. Look In Glass is an alienated, virtual, passive, cool and controlled experience of the journal pages. Yes, it would be possible to retain these characteristics within the context of a stand alone object or film, but the point is not the characteristics themselves, but the juxtaposition of them to the actual, real, warm and textured, out of control, ‘in your face’, ‘up close and personal experience’ of the journal pages, as the viewer experiences them in Wanderland.
I invited twenty-eight people to come to my home and view Wanderland and Look In Glass. Twenty responded and sixteen were able to come. The viewers’ ages, socio-economic, and professional backgrounds are varied across the arts [performing arts, visual arts and design], sciences, business, humanities, journalism, theology and service industry. All had previously been to my home and walked through the hallway. Two of the viewers are family members and live in the space. Most were familiar to some degree with my paintings, a few knew of my health history, and three knew of what I am trying to achieve in this project. Except for those three, the viewers did not know what to expect when they opened the door and entered Wanderland. The three who knew about the project were still unsure of what to expect behind the door.
Wanderland and Look In Glass are intended to be experienced by one person at a time. They are not meant to be viewed in an open, public space, with other individuals physically present. [This will prove a challenge when presenting Look In Glass and the companion piece, which will take the place of Wanderland, titled Just Between Me And You at the Winter Residency, but I am currently in the process of developing another presentation format that maintains the desired experience.] The experience of the work as a personal, solitary experience is important because it mirrors the experience of a seizure which can only be fully understood and experienced personally and in a solitary manner. The way the works were installed on December 6 enabled me to control to access to the space, limiting it to a single person at a time. In the invitation I sent, I requested the guests to RSVP with a time they would like to visit. This was meant to help maintain the sense of an intimate experience even when the viewers were outside the space waiting to travel through it. Some visitors did do this, with just one or two people other than myself present in adjoining rooms while an individual visited Wanderland and Look In Glass. However there was a moment when about seven of the viewers who did not state a time arrived simultaneously. This meant there was a longer wait to view the work. It also prevented viewers from providing much feedback in the first moments after viewing because they wanted to keep what they experienced a ‘secret’ from those who had not yet traveled through Wanderland and visited Look In Glass. Feedback has trickled in via email, phone and social media messaging.
The voices of those seated, waiting in the living room, drinking mulled wine, tea, and eating German holiday cakes were kept low and conversation to a minimum; like most wood framed American houses, the walls are thin and sounds easily carry. Although my original intention was to make the experience as ‘sound free’ as possible for reasons mirroring my own seizure experience, about four of the viewers mentioned the experience of the sounds carried through the walls in relation to their viewing of the work. None of these were mentioned negatively or as being a distraction, instead they all mentioned how it added to the sense of isolation- solitary, inside space versus a space outside occupied by other individuals in conversation. Some found this comforting, reassuring that they were really not so alone. Others felt that it made the solitariness of the space more special, as if it was created just for them and the people outside the space were being excluded from experiencing it. Some mentioned being able to identify the voices, but not really understand what was being said. Much of what was said about the sounds reflects my own experience during a seizure, but it was not something I directly referred to, stated, or even intended to do. I did not reveal to these viewers how accurate their understanding of the sounds in relation to the experience were for me. All understood the sounds as chance occurrences, perhaps not intended as part of the piece. They all began to question if perhaps by not including another type of sound in the space the chance sounds coming from outside the space were really, in an unplanned way, intentional. It was encouraging for me to hear the direction this feedback took, and has made me consider how much the work, when pointed in the right direction, on its own can develop pertinent layers of meaning.
This larger group of coeval viewers consisted primarily of people least familiar with my work, the project, and my personal health history. While they were waiting I quietly provided a bit more information to the viewers about why I had invited them, as a means of gathering feedback outside my Crit Group on the works which in an altered form would be presented at the residency next month in New York City. I told them the title of my first year project: “Self Portrait of a Female with Epilepsy”. I did not go into details about the project other than the title and that I was planning a series of self portraits, contemplating various approaches to “painting”, and had worked on a loose leaf journal which is incorporated in various ways into these works, and the pages will be addresses in the paper I will write this winter about the project. Most of this group was fine with waiting, and when it came time for their turn they took their time going through the pieces. A couple of the waiting viewers were more noticeably agitated by having to wait, and both went through the pieces at a much quicker pace than other viewers did. This could have been because they might have had other plans that evening, they were receiving text messages and left quickly after viewing the pieces. In other words, they seemed personally distracted and unable to fully engage with the pieces, which might not necessarily be just attributable to the work. The only feedback I received from one of these viewers was, that not being an “object” person, the viewer would have preferred more text telling what the piece was about. This person is an academic with a background in art history and cultural studies, and writes a lot in these areas; a person who self-identified as “needing the text”. However this person was not the only academic, writer, or “word person” present; yet the only one that had this type of response.
Most of the feedback provided focused on the contrast between the intensity of the experience ofWanderland during the first walk through towards Look In Glass. Then the calmness of the spaceLook In Glass occupied and of the piece itself- especially after the revelation that the images were ‘the same’ source they had just navigated through was mentioned. Finally how the viewer experienced a change in feelings on the return journey back through Wanderland to re-enter the more ‘public’ space of the living room.
A number of viewers mentioned the concept of intimacy that was being expressed in both pieces and by the event in general. The invitation which I sent out echoed an invitation to a private party. The event was held not only in the space which houses my studio, but is also my home. It was a cold, rainy December evening, but I had a fire burning in the cast iron stove in the living room, mulled wine, hot tea and cakes. The overall atmosphere exuded ‘intimacy’. To this another layer of intimacy was added by limiting access to the artworks to one person at a time. Some of the viewers said this made them feel “special”, as if it was only created for them, I was only allowing them to be privy to something. On top of this layer was yet another intimate layering, the artworks were not located in what one would consider ‘public’ space in a family home, but in a hallway leading to the bedrooms and bathrooms, the ‘private’ spaces; and Look In Glass occupied a bedroom, with a bed and heavy black drapery over the windows keeping the space intensely private, intimate. One viewer found the experience to be quite sexual.
The initial entry into Wanderland was quite overwhelming for almost all of the viewers, especially who were taller and those with a tendency towards claustrophobia. Navigation of the passageway was another central theme mentioned. Some realized immediately they would need to find ‘alternate routes’ through the space, which meant they got down low, walking hunched over or crawling on the floor beneath the pages. Others, usually those most overwhelmed with feelings of claustrophobia or being under attack by the pages, were unable to look for the logical way through the maze, so they tackled it head on, pushing through the pages to get to the door at the other end of the hallway. Interestingly the only person to mention feeling “attacked” by the pages is a curator who puts together ten exhibits a year at a local university. He mentioned thinking “You’re not suppose to touch the art, but it’s touching me!”. Despite having known the before entering the space that the piece was part of my project “Self Portrait of a Female with Epilepsy” he was unable to retain any of this information upon encountering the pages because at that moment his ‘learned’ behavior of how to interact with art came to the forefront and the internal conflict created by the situation overwhelmed him. He still journeyed through the space, and even on his return journey from Look In Glass was never able to feel fully comfortable in the space because of the taboos he felt he was breaking, but he was able to then handle the pages and examine them more closely. On the other hand, when a painter with whom I’ve been involved in an art group and exhibited with numerous times in the past ten years entered the space, her initial thought was “You’re not supposed to touch the art, but wait, if Robyn hadn’t wanted me to touch it, she wouldn’t have hung it this way” so she grabbed hold of and examined each piece; she is a very physical person by nature. She did not stay long at the Look In Glass because in contrast to the pages with their tactility, she found the glass “dull” and distant, so she went quickly back to Wanderland and spent more time with the real things.
A couple each separately found their way during their journey to the bathroom located off the hallway, and sought a few moments retreat in order to regain their composure in that banal space. They both said they found as soon as they re-entered the hallway the overwhelming feelings came back, but they knew they had to get to the other door. Both mentioned how the bedroom in whichLook In Glass was placed had the calming effect they had sought in the bathroom, but had been unable to find. In that space they were able to regain their composure, and not only spend time with the images in that space and become comfortable with the pages through the distancing which occurred through the glass, but they were able to re-enter Wanderland and begin the return journey through the passageway without the fear and anxiety they had experienced on the way toLook In Glass. As one visitor put it, he had been through it once before, survived, and realized it was not going to hurt or destroy him, he could now go through it again, look at the work, and he’d be okay. One visitor, who did not feel the same anxiety on the initial journey through the passageway, but rather experienced a sense of enchantment, still had a similar response to the second space, the bedroom and Look In Glass. After the calmness of that space and spending time looking at the images of the pages inside the mirror box she was eager to re-enter Wanderland and look at, touch, and hold the actual pages again in person. But she said she did receive a shock when she opened the door because at that moment she first noticed the sparkle of the floor covering which she was not aware of on the journey to Look In Glass. It appeared to drop away beneath her feet as she stepped onto it. Unlike the viewers who experienced the hallway as ‘claustrophobic’ she was one of about half the viewers who experienced the space as endless, open and filled with potential, not an anxious, narrow space. She gladly stepped out into “outer space” as she described it to further explore the pages. On a similar note, the viewers who I would say tend toward a self image of risk taking and openness towards life in general tended to find the space expressed in Wanderlandmost constrained. The viewers who tend to be more closed, conservative, and passive in their daily approach to life tended to find the space most open, unconfined, and freeing.
A final bit of the feedback I received and wish to share is from my 13 year old son who was present at various stages of the installation and creation of the pages. Upon experiencing the completed installation he was amazed at how spaces which he otherwise takes for granted, in fact hasn’t ever considered them as meaningful spaces, could be transformed by things as simple as paint, fabric, pieces of paper, a mirror, and a few lights. His relationship to the space prior to the installation was different from the other viewers, yet the other viewers were also familiar with the space somewhat as a central hallway connecting the front of the house, the upstairs, the guest bedroom, bathroom and kitchen. For those viewers the space itself gained additional layers of meaning; for my son the space not only gained new meaning, the ability to transform space through such basic measures has [hopefully] altered his perception of spaces in general. It makes me think of how it would be to go into the homes of others and transform their living space. Often when people purchase a painting to hang on their wall they let the artist know how much it has “made” or “transformed” the space; and usually when purchasing a work of art it is because at first sight the buyer “knew” where it belonged. I have also had people not buy a piece because as much as it “spoke to them” they could not picture where it belonged. So how would it be to go into their private space and transform it without them having a preconceived notion of what that transformation would entail?
What insight into Wanderland and Look In Glass have I gained by this showing and the feedback I received? First, that I was able to achieve the emotional responses and understanding I sought through the work without having to explain anything in advance. For me this is a pretty big step. Second, although everyone who viewed the works are personal acquaintances, some closer friends, others less close, there was already a certain level of familiarity with each other which allowed me to gauge their responses to the the work in a way I could not do from a stranger. And yet, at the same time, the work by which they have known me to create would appear to them to be very different from that which I was presenting to them on this December evening. In the last hours of installing the work I decided to include five canvases which I had painted in the past 18 months. These not only helped define the space and the context, but for a couple of viewers they literally served as buoys on which they could grab hold of what they knew to be “Robyn’s painting”. These viewers found it difficult to talk about the other parts of the pieces, aside from references, red threads, that they found connected the canvases they knew me for and the rest which was so foreign to them. Knowing their biographies I did not find this shocking, I was more amazed by the viewers I thought might do this and did not, but became incredibly erudite when speaking of the whole experience.
As I mentioned at the beginning these pieces are unable to travel in this form to New York for the residency, so I will be making a new piece and presenting Look In Glass along with it in a slightly altered form. Hopefully I will be able to attain similar results. It would be nice to be able to presentWanderland and Look In Glass to viewers completely unknown to me and I to them, but this is not something I would want to do within my personal living space, mainly because it is also the personal space of three other people. At the same time I feel that the context of presenting the pieces in a personal living space is vital to the overall concept of the work. Wanderland and Look In Glass [in this form] are well documented, and in the right context could be re-presented. But at this moment they are done for me and I am ready to move on to the next iteration of the Series of Self Portraits of a Female with Epilepsy.
March 19, 2015
This post, like the "Drawing Is Creepy" post from October 28, 2014 is an example of part of the thought process behind my approach to the art I create. This writing, like most of the blog posts, has not been highly edited and should be read as a sketch which might feed into further explorations.
The other day I sat down at the keyboard to do that thing all artists do now and then, or at least whenever external forces press upon them to do it: re-write, edit down, expand upon, or just start writing an artist statement and bio. It is something all artists have to do at some point, there is no way around it. But we torture ourselves with us. And the only torture worse than writing an artists statement is reading one; you can just feel the pain and agony the artist felt having to not just write about her or his work, but to also write about his or herself. Usually I try to avoid reading an artist statement when I go into a gallery, at least until curiosity gets the best of me. Then if the work piques my interest in some way that I think “maybe this person has something in the artist statement which will give me a bit more insight to what is happening here”, I saunter over to the reception counter to see what papers have been laid out to provide the validation needed to accept “this is art”. If I am lucky, beyond a price/title list, some reviews both recent and distant, and a formal curriculum vitae, there won’t be an artist statement amongst the offerings. Considering not every gallery or exhibition space can be a mini-museum wanna be, hosting exhibition events with viewers brought in by the bus load on a Saturday afternoon to gaze in wonderment whilst they extend their selfie sticks into the crowd; who needs to know what the artist has to say about the work in that milieu? Reality is that in most galleries and spaces where art is exhibited you will find an artist statement, so you better begin writing one that not only myself but hopefully the hundreds of others who will encounter your work and have their interest piqued enough to want to know more about the work and about the artist behind, will want to read. It is a necessary part of what we do, and we need to stop allowing ourselves to play the victim to its torture, and begin writing the artist statement we want to read about our work and about ourselves. Its time we begin understanding what artists statements really are and writing them in the way they deserve to be written.
What is an artist statement and bio? Sure, it is a couple of paragraphs an artist writes about the work she or he is exhibiting, either specific to a particular body of work or to the work in general. It might talk about the thoughts and process, both material and conceptual, from which the work evolved. Unlike the artist bio, the artist statement is often written in the first person, whereas the bio might be written by the artist about him or herself in the third person, as strange as that might sound. To sum it up, the artist statement and bio provides the reader, who is hopefully also the viewer, a written image of the work and the person behind it. They are in this sense a self portrait.
How can an artist write a self portrait of his or her art? Doesn’t there have to be some ‘self’ to go along with the ‘portrait’? Let’s face it, not every work of art an artist creates embodies his or herself. Does it? No, it doesn’t, and I don’t think it should. How bored we would all become if all the art we experienced was just about the artist. However just as it is the natural inclination of humans to put a name to a face, so to is it the desire of most viewers of art to put an artist ‘behind’ the work. Therefore what and how an artist writes about the work she or he creates begins to form an image of the artist behind the work as well as the work itself.
As an artist one of the most frustrating moments I ever experienced was in an art history seminar I was enrolled in whilst studying for a degree in that field after finishing up my BFA in painting. The postdoc leading that seminar on the European Avant Garde of the 1950s-1960s in prepping us on how to work with sources for the presentations and papers we would be delivering stated: do not use or trust anything an artist has written or said about his work. It is almost always untrue. I was personally offended by this statement. Not that it is false to say much of what an artist might write or say about his or her work is possibly untruthful or misleading, after all most of those whose work has had a lasting impact in the Twentieth Century have been coyotes whose work has been built on a precipice of manipulation and self-mythologization. But to say because of this fact of known obfuscation on the part of the artist scholars should dismiss what an artist has to say about his or her work is wrong. Often the best way to get to the whole truth is to first sort through all the halfs.
Does this mean as an artist it is okay to write about your work in half truths? No. Willful ambiguity that is genuine and supports the work and the image the artist is attempting to convey are justifiable, as long as it is genuine and integral to the work. The artist as creator, initiator, is intrinsic to the work; abstrusity in biography can be tolerated too, when it is genuine. In the words of Gustave Flaubert “of all lies, art is the least untrue”. Therefore within a genuine artistic half truth lies the potential of a whole truth.
As artists writing about ourselves and our work it is at times better to leave a door unlocked or slightly ajar, rather than wide open with a flashing arrow pointing the reader/viewer the way down the path of full comprehension. He or she might decide to try a door handle or take a peek behind to see what else might be discovered beyond the path the artist has seemingly laid out to the work. Or the reader/viewer might decided to stay on that path, ignoring what might branch off in other directions; that is for him or her to decide, not for the artist to dictate. Creating this space for the reader/viewer to choose for him or herself, surrendering control of interpretation, opens up a space for the reader/viewer to engage with the art on a more personal level. Both the reader/viewer and the art are enriched by this openness; the biography of the artist, the biography [statement] of the work and the biography of the reader/viewer are given the chance to combine in ways a directed telling of the work and the artist’s biography otherwise constrains.
Back to my own adventures in writing, rewriting, editing my artist statement and bio. Spurred on by a deadline to provide one for an exhibit I am having this June, and seeing how the various statements I had on file no longer seemed to fit with the work I am planning to show, I produced the following:
I make art as a means to explore existential questions of the mind-body relationship as they relate to neurological and biological processes, structures, language, and the understanding and expression of the self and all that is beyond the self, the other. I am a painter and it is as a painter that I approach all I create regardless of the final form a piece may take. At times these forms occupy a place between that which we think we know should be and how we are physically experiencing a place in the moment; a morphing occurs driven by both the concept, its manifestation and how the viewer stands in relation to the work.
The paintings exhibited here are part of an exploration of the image of self, embodied by the painting and subsequently fractured by the mirror frame.
Robyn Thomas received a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Studio Art (Painting) from Kent State University in 1991. In addition, she has studied Art History, Philosophy and Pedagogy at the University of Karlsruhe, Germany and was a guest student at the Karlsruhe University of Arts and Design/Staatliche Hochschul für Gestaltung Karlsruhe in the Institute for Art and Media Theory/Institut für Kunstwissenschaft und Medienphilosophie. She is currently a candidate in the MFA Creative Practice program of Transart Institute/Plymouth University[UK]. Robyn Thomas has exhibited her work in solo and group exhibitions throughout Germany and the United States. She currently lives and paints in Providence, Rhode Island USA.
While I wrote the first draft of this I did not think of it as a self portrait. Placing the writing into the context of a self portrait came to me in the wee hours of the following morning, as I awoke to my usual mid-life, mid-sleep insomniatic moment with the understanding ‘this is what it is’ in my head. Later that morning I sat down with the previous days writing, and severely hacked away a significant portion of what I had written, hopefully leaving doors unlocked and ajar for the reader/viewers to try opening on their own. Could I have said more? Could I have said less? Yes. Am I being willfully ambiguous for the sake of obfuscation? Or is the beclouding a pick-axe I am generously offering the reader/viewer with the genuine intent that should he or she decide to take it into their own hands and apply it to the words and works, they will find the whole hidden amongst the halfs?
This remains to be seen. For now the statement and bio have been written and sent off to the gallery director’s email. This version has taken its place not only in the file with those that came before it and where it will undoubtedly be joined soon by others, but also amongst the self portraits.