Inarticulate Speech of the Art
I received a grant this week to create large abstract expressionist paintings. Sturdy stretcher bars are big money (this size canvas costs $100 before first stroke of paint). Stuckism is critical of abstraction, and I used to be all Stuckist, but am not anymore. I have always suspected that painting can be like playing a trumpet, beating a drum, or keening at a funeral. It doesn’t need the figure just like the songs don’t need the lyrics. And now I know it’s true, because I tried it and feel like I’ve experienced a big change but nothing much at all. Anyway, 85 out of a 100 times an abstract painting will reveal obvious figuration conjuring optical vibrations (like a saxophone does with sound waves) transforming them with the dual magic of the 10,000 things to create never-before-seen pictures in our heads. “That looks like a giraffe riding in a convertible.” “I see someone smoking a log cigarette.” “Obviously Foghorn Leghorn combing his comb in the mirror.”
It wasn’t easy beating my ego down a pride or two, and I couldn’t have done it alone. I thought I was near-finished when I showed Rose the following:
She asked if I thought I was going anywhere or just being stuck where painting felt good like it did the day before. A heated discussion ensued. Actually, more like brick wall, stubborn, wannabe persuasive, B.S. talk from me declaring, in five thousands words or less (god-help-us before we turn out the light), “Of course it’s me. It’s where I’m at and what I’m doing. Who else could it be? You’re just poking self-doubt needles through my pretend contentment bubble!”
Yet she stayed her ground, (even suggesting I take a broom to it), while I made up more words to convince her how wrong she was, yet remained alone and deflated inside, knowing the truth that her criticism was spot on.
I kept up the fight in my dreams and through our morning coffee, and arrived at the art association determined to stand my ground and go nowhere. Sign the painting. Post it on social media. Re-inflate the ego to stack another toxic rectangle on top of the earth’s crust.
And then this song:
Rose will vanish. And I will go. And every person we know and love is temporary ego stupid and blind most of the time. And no matter how much we suck at life-giving, there’s just this life to give and give and give, and take a little bit for fuel to give more. It could be bread, cat-sitting, a kind word, or just a teeny tiny exhale of carbon dioxide. The in-breath the present, the out-breath your love.
And then I took the painting off the easel and did this:
And then this with my fingers…
And Rose wins again.
This reminds me of the proverbial 90% rule in art (that when you think you're 90% done, you're actually done, lest you futz until you ruin the thing), because I have found that the rule doesn't really apply to me, either. The reflexive, non-ego-associated, almost unconscious futzing that invariably kicks in at the just-beyond-90% point is what gets me to that element of surprise that is necessary for the process to achieve "completion." I'm neither as prolific nor ever as abstract (and marvelously inarticulate!) as you are, but I have enough experience in creating art for this piece and your narrative behind it to resonate.
I really appreciated this post--for my own inarticulate reasons/seasons.