Studios are sanctuaries, little sovereign embassies of a country far away, a bit more liberal, sometimes not as orderly as the world outside. To take a very private activity, painting at an easel, into the street for an annual city-wide event, seems almost like a duty, missionaries among native peoples, out there painting street scenes, porches, gardens, construction sites.
It’s not much fun, having to search for all your gear in boxes and bags, the easel set up on a sidewalk somewhere. There’s the sun with constantly moving shadows, inconvenient conveniences, eating and drinking on the spot, it’s a strain. There’s a deadline. Still, it feels good to be doing it. People want to peek, sometimes ask permission, shy and curious. Well of course, that’s the point, even though showing an unfinished painting feels something like giving a speech in your underwear. This is a day to see how they’re made, to compare one corner to the next, to decide what works and what doesn’t yet. It’s visual bootcamp for the community, and an opportunity to introduce artists and potential audience, both sides a little eager, sorta sweet.
I could care less what people have already learned from art’s commercial and scholarly mandarins, they have these lists. That stuff just gets in the way. Every human has the gear on board to discern quality in art, it just requires looking. Got to admit Thomas Kinkade looks pretty good, warm and sentimental, a silvery glow, until one day in a museum, in a gallery, on a neighbor's wall this KinKade fan sees something better. It could take a while, but with an open mind eventually they’ll probably be drawn to something a little more reserved, maybe with a bit more imagination, in some intangible way somehow more sincere. A note of caution, this is not something that can be calculated in isolation, and only can be determined by direct comparison. The good news is it’s automatic, a basic app wired in, part of the package you were born with.
It lies dormant while the evening news drones on about millions at auction over and above already astronomical projections, a deep snooze, but out in the fresh air, looking over some artist’s shoulder while they put color to canvas, as the scene across the street begins to emerge, certain hormones are released, sleeping circuits fire up. Before long strolling citizens want to know who’s better and discover, maybe for the first time, they get to decide for themselves. It’s the seed of awareness, the awakening of a visual appetite that might blossom in a decade or two into a regional art destination for the entire eastern half of the nation, with a range of art available from affordable to elevated, prosperous artists, busy shopkeepers, smiles all around.
It’s not much fun, having to search for all your gear in boxes and bags, the easel set up on a sidewalk somewhere. There’s the sun with constantly moving shadows, inconvenient conveniences, eating and drinking on the spot, it’s a strain. There’s a deadline. Still, it feels good to be doing it. People want to peek, sometimes ask permission, shy and curious. Well of course, that’s the point, even though showing an unfinished painting feels something like giving a speech in your underwear. This is a day to see how they’re made, to compare one corner to the next, to decide what works and what doesn’t yet. It’s visual bootcamp for the community, and an opportunity to introduce artists and potential audience, both sides a little eager, sorta sweet.
I could care less what people have already learned from art’s commercial and scholarly mandarins, they have these lists. That stuff just gets in the way. Every human has the gear on board to discern quality in art, it just requires looking. Got to admit Thomas Kinkade looks pretty good, warm and sentimental, a silvery glow, until one day in a museum, in a gallery, on a neighbor's wall this KinKade fan sees something better. It could take a while, but with an open mind eventually they’ll probably be drawn to something a little more reserved, maybe with a bit more imagination, in some intangible way somehow more sincere. A note of caution, this is not something that can be calculated in isolation, and only can be determined by direct comparison. The good news is it’s automatic, a basic app wired in, part of the package you were born with.
It lies dormant while the evening news drones on about millions at auction over and above already astronomical projections, a deep snooze, but out in the fresh air, looking over some artist’s shoulder while they put color to canvas, as the scene across the street begins to emerge, certain hormones are released, sleeping circuits fire up. Before long strolling citizens want to know who’s better and discover, maybe for the first time, they get to decide for themselves. It’s the seed of awareness, the awakening of a visual appetite that might blossom in a decade or two into a regional art destination for the entire eastern half of the nation, with a range of art available from affordable to elevated, prosperous artists, busy shopkeepers, smiles all around.
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