There are as many different sorts of artists as there are artists, each unique, but here we describe the generic artist in any semi-free modern culture. The artist is a tortured soul, a basic truism of the occupation, and we know this because there are so many easier ways to utilize that set of gifts. Being talented means you can design stuff, meet with clients, go to lunch and not come back. Advertising agencies recruit, and industry loves the creative. Take the kinks out of the production line or come up with a new product, and no pee test for you. Why be an artist at all?
Like the shellfish with the grit inside, artists have some defect, a difficult childhood, a touch of Aspergers, confused sexuality, reflexive anger, something which leaves them out of step, lacking the charm and self-confidence to be the top salesman, without the patience and resignation for nine to five. They find satisfaction, perhaps relief, in translating the inchoate turbulence in their noggins into solid form, an artifact of their solitary wanderings, a signpost left on their formless path. The art they make, like the pearl, still has the grit at its center as a part of the composition, and it’s there that the connection with the viewer is made.
Life is usually difficult for that sort of person. The art they make is hard to merchandize, too idiosyncratic, too weird, and so it isn’t represented in galleries and can’t get by the curators, either. Still they make art which they can’t sell since it’s never seen, and they either work at unrelated menial occupations for low pay, or they sacrifice their talent to support a family, to take vacations, to gain communal respect, and sometimes wind up drinking too much. This classic case is all around, but there are updated versions.
Occasionally the entrepreneurial wander into art classes, basket-weaving electives going for the mba, and recognizing gullibility and cash together, figure why not stay? They turn ‘anybody could do that’ into ‘I could do that,’ and a star is born. These are your big time artists, and their tribe includes grad students who aspire to be big time, along with faculty seeking cover and the vendors who supply galleries with a professional, predictable product. They’re called artists too, and the clever ones prosper, but there’s no grit at the center, no deep down universal to nod back to. There’s a way to tell the difference, and if you don’t see it in the moment, just wait a while. For some reason it’s the work of the compulsion-driven artist that endures, finds resonance in the public mind, and eventually goes up on the walls of museums to remind us that we’re human.
Like the shellfish with the grit inside, artists have some defect, a difficult childhood, a touch of Aspergers, confused sexuality, reflexive anger, something which leaves them out of step, lacking the charm and self-confidence to be the top salesman, without the patience and resignation for nine to five. They find satisfaction, perhaps relief, in translating the inchoate turbulence in their noggins into solid form, an artifact of their solitary wanderings, a signpost left on their formless path. The art they make, like the pearl, still has the grit at its center as a part of the composition, and it’s there that the connection with the viewer is made.
Life is usually difficult for that sort of person. The art they make is hard to merchandize, too idiosyncratic, too weird, and so it isn’t represented in galleries and can’t get by the curators, either. Still they make art which they can’t sell since it’s never seen, and they either work at unrelated menial occupations for low pay, or they sacrifice their talent to support a family, to take vacations, to gain communal respect, and sometimes wind up drinking too much. This classic case is all around, but there are updated versions.
Occasionally the entrepreneurial wander into art classes, basket-weaving electives going for the mba, and recognizing gullibility and cash together, figure why not stay? They turn ‘anybody could do that’ into ‘I could do that,’ and a star is born. These are your big time artists, and their tribe includes grad students who aspire to be big time, along with faculty seeking cover and the vendors who supply galleries with a professional, predictable product. They’re called artists too, and the clever ones prosper, but there’s no grit at the center, no deep down universal to nod back to. There’s a way to tell the difference, and if you don’t see it in the moment, just wait a while. For some reason it’s the work of the compulsion-driven artist that endures, finds resonance in the public mind, and eventually goes up on the walls of museums to remind us that we’re human.
1 comment:
"Life is usually difficult for that sort of person. The art they make is hard to merchandize, too idiosyncratic, too weird, and so it isn’t represented in galleries and can’t get by the curators, either. Still they make art which they can’t sell since it’s never seen, and they either work at unrelated menial occupations for low pay"
^^^^^^ This has been much of my art career. I'm seen a bit more now, but many of those above mentioned difficulties remain.
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