Artistic Vision

Some of the heaviest comments made in a critique are the ones that are not said.  I remember experiencing such a critique my first year in graduate school.  I had been feeling pretty confident about the work I was showing, since I had spent dozens of hours cloistered in my studio, boiling all the elements down to their essential state. In fact, I couldn’t imagine any other work that I should be making.  But the instructor I had made an appointment with was not so much looking at my work as he was looking past it.  To the blank wall.  Behind it.  He was being very quiet, and he had a slight twist in his facial expression, like he was experiencing a small stomach cramp.  He seemed like he needed help getting the conversational ball rolling, so I started to list some of the decisions that had lead me to making the paintings that were hanging right in front of the blank wall. I told him about my choice of media, how the colors came together, and why I felt that this imagery fit me so well.  He interrupted my laundry list, and asked, “Have you ever had an artistic vision?”  The hanging, implied comment, of course, was “…Cause this sure ain’t one!”  I meekly responded, “Well, what do you mean?” But I was knocked off guard, and my ears were buzzing, so I have no memory of the rest of the conversation.  Consequently, I have had to come up with my own answers about this business of artistic vision:

·        I cannot make or plan an artistic vision.  There is no magic combination of media, concept, and motivation that will lead to revelation.  Not even when you are in grad school.   And you have a critique deadline.

·        Though I have had many high school students ask, I have never relied on illicit substances to tap into my creative subconscious.  Drugs do not make you see the world more creatively.  They just make you dumb enough to perceive some things as art; Pink Floyd laser light shows, Jim Morrison’s lyrics, tattoos designed by your buddy…

·        Though not as exciting as drugs, there are certain alchemical ingredients that, when properly combined, can create the conditions under which brain waves are generated.  They include (but are not limited to):

o       slow meals in large groups

o       road trips

o       relaxed and rambley conversations with my wife

o       playing with my three year old son

o       long walks with my ten year old daughter

o       making almost anything with my seven year old daughter

o       competing fiercely at any sport with my twelve year old son

o       giving open-ended instructions to a classroom full of teenagers and standing back to watch what happens

o       washing a warm and sudsy sink load of dirty dishes by hand at the end of a long day

In other words, artistic visions are not made in the studio.  Objects are made in the studio.

·        Not only is inspiration more difficult to predict than the weather, it is often difficult for me to recognize at first.  Great art does not begin with lightening bolts.  It is more like a fog that slowly envelops me, clouding my thoughts with a haze that just will not lift.

·        A sure sign that I am in the throws of a meaningful creative problem is insomnia. I am not content to just “put it away” for the night, but will continue entertaining possibilities, like trying to fit puzzle pieces into places that they almost fit.

·        Eventually, artistic vision builds to compulsion.  Just like the nervous tick that will not let some people leave a room without flipping a light switch repeatedly, my twitching fingers can develop a phantom-ache as I imagine the physical manipulation of materials.  And then when I do get my hands busy with studio work, a lot of time might pass before I even consider how strange it is to be, say, wrapping cinder blocks in packing tape…and scabs of dried paint…two hours past bedtime…

So, in the end, an abstract vision leads to concrete objects.  And those objects will be critiqued.  The best measure of any artwork is not just whether it catches your attention on the blank wall.  The best work somehow transcends itself and makes you start dreaming about more that must be made.

 See my work at kevinpkellyart.artspan.com

Polishing the...You Know

So, I have had quite a few comments and questions about the name of this blog.  My “polite” short answer is that the name incorporates the major themes of my art endeavors, traditional ideas about making art and beauty mixed with the mundane details of life (in this case, the earthiest of mundane details).  But, as is the case so many times, the answer is really less straightforward, more of a “pile” of related thoughts and experiences about the intersections of daily life and art.  I could say:

• Well, there was this time when I was taking an undergrad ceramics class.  I was sitting in the clay studio after hours, rubbing a thick-walled wheel thrown pot with slip, and trying in vain to burnish its surface to sheen with the back of a spoon.  A grad student walked in, watched me struggle for a few minutes, and sadly shook his head, then spoke, “My dad always said, ‘you just can’t polish a turd.’”  Then he turned and walked out.
• My studio is in the basement of our house, the “bowels” of our home, and I work around the heating ducts and plumbing.  Once a year, our sewer will back up, and yes, the main sewer clean-out is also there in the basement.  This means that I get to host an annual studio visit with a Roto-Rooter technician.  I get to explain what is going on in my studio, discuss the merits of making art, and, if I am lucky, have an impromptu critique.
• Any beginning painting student will tell you that it is pretty easy to make brown.  Mix a bunch of colors together, and you will get some variation.  Add the texture of paint to that observation, and before long the associations with bodily functions will come.  My work explores those colors that pollute our every day environments.  It is fitting that processing and digesting these colors yields the “specimens” that populate my paintings.
• Do you remember Homestar Runner?  If you missed out on this surreal bit of internet pop culture, look it up.  As an artist I have always felt some kinship with the Poopsmith.  He is a quiet character, a little mysterious, always in the background, nobody is quite sure what his work actually is, but they are sure that they do not want to stand too close to him.
• Just in case you think that it is juvenile to dwell on such a subject, I would argue that adults, not kids, are actually much more likely to initiate conversation about this taboo topic.  Sure, I grew up with four brothers, but at least we were polite enough to use creative euphemisms when needed (my favorite was, “I’m going to take the kids to the pool.”).  As parents, my wife and I have developed specialized vocabulary to discuss the contents of diapers.  “Honey, it was just a Milk Dud, nothing to get excited about,” verses “Wow! What a crack-packer!”, for instance.  I did think that this was just an “us” thing, but I have had the same types of conversations with professional peers, say, in the hallways at work.  “Yep, my kid was at home with a case of hot lava all day yesterday.”  Speaking of maturity, this sense of shared experience does carry into later years.  My 75 year old father-in-law, who is not normally known for his intimacy (I can only remember hugging him once in our 17 year relationship), feels perfectly comfortable discussing the state of his bowels with me.  Recently he volunteered, “They make a really good chocolate wafer that takes care of me when I’m feeling a little blocked.”
• I was listening to a radio call-in show not long ago, and a doctor was answering general health questions for listeners.  One caller wanted to know if it was possible to purify your diet to the point that your body would no longer produce solid waste.  The doctor seemed a little taken a back.  “You know, like if you just ate like pure vitamins and stuff,” the caller clarified.  The doctor tentatively ventured a few scientific explanations, but then conceded; we will never be able to fully eliminate the crap from our lives.
• On my birthday last month, my family was eating out to celebrate, and my mom called my cell phone to wish me a happy birthday.  I thanked her, and she continued, “Did you know that it is also A.A. Milne’s birthday?”  I said I didn’t, and she continued, “So they call today Pooh day!”  She continued again, “It fits you perfectly, since you were born all covered with meconium!”

And, on that last note, I could just say that making art is a means of “polishing” myself, and that, of course, makes me the…you know.

See my artwork at kevinpkellyart.artspan.com