Above it was always a small upward-facing triangle symbolizing the Mount of Joy that Dante tried unsuccessfully to climb toward to avoid Hell. On the outside things were great. On the inside I was in agony, terrified, afraid of failing, anxious about what to do next and how to do it. I started not working for longer and longer periods. Hiding it.
a book, a post, and a bio for the artist in you
Then not hiding it. Until all I had left was calling myself an artist. At 27, I had what I think of as a one-year walking nervous breakdown. Which was shattering. In this state of self-deprecating deprivation, I wanted what others had, hated anyone who had more space, time, money, education, a better career. To this day I tell all young artists to make an enemy of envy or else it will eat you alive.
Like it did me. I was so out of step. Chicago was still involved with s Conceptualism, straight photography, regional ideas of hard-edged abstraction, process art, and Pluralism. The first of these was out of my painterly and scale reach; the second, out of my intellectual depth; the last was nothing I was involved with, and I could never stay up late enough or do enough drugs to really participate in clubbing. I was in shock, unable to muster what real artists use to fortify themselves when faced with situations like this.
When I teach today, I often judge young artists based on whether I think they have the character necessary to solve the inevitable problems in their work. I had self-doubt but not a real self-critical facility; instead I indiscriminately loved or hated everything I did. Instead of gearing up and fighting back, I gave in and got out. But I learned so much about being a critic. Artists often complain that critics are animated by resentment. Which is why, whatever my flaws as a critic, I have always tried to be as generous toward the people making the work as I would have wanted anyone studying mine to be.
I want my criticism to reflect the hell I went through as an artist — to look, even with work I do not appreciate at first blush, for the sign of the soul yelping at me from within or behind.
All artists may want to make money and be loved, but at base they are still serious about their art. Outsiders often see the art world as a fashionable never-ending party, buffered from reality by money. Having been an artist, I see it very differently. I see myself as part of this great broken beautiful art-world family of gypsies, searching and yearning and in pain — and under pressure, doing things that they have to do.
I refuse to believe this spirit has left the art world even though I comprehend that this exquisite internal essence is now buried under loads of external bullshit. I know almost every artist wakes up at 3 a. That each of us is self-taught and some kind of outsider.
I want critics to be as radically vulnerable in their work as I know artists are in theirs. Art is slow, physical, resistant, material-based, and involves an ongoing commitment to doing the same thing differently over and over again in the studio. I love and live for that jolt.
Criticism involves constant change, drama, information coming in from the outside, processing it in the moment in front of everyone, always being in the here and now while also trying to access history and experience.
I have a tropism toward reaction. I have to dance naked in public. A lot. How deep is my lack of artistic character? Pretty deep, it turns out. No altarpieces. But around drawings somehow survived. And within one extraordinary day three weeks ago, I relived a perfect repeat of my entire artistic journey.
Welcome to my Place . . . Johannesburg
I went through these newly discovered portfolios. One by one. Drawing by drawing. I studied them all.
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I knew what every move and mark meant. My breath was taken away. I fell madly in love with my work. I was astonished at how beautiful much of it was.
How it all made sense. I thought, These are fabulous! I was a great artist. I looked and looked.
Top artists reveal how to find creative inspiration | Culture | The Guardian
We fear that God has a plan for us, but we're missing it. Yet if we travel back to our seats in the art room, art teacher Matt Appling reminds us of lessons we've forgotten, the joy of creating, and the freedom we had to succeed or fail. We can relearn these lessons and practice them to lead the contented, joy-filled, and productive lives that God created us to live. Show More Show Less. Any Condition Any Condition.
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