You know what opinions are like
Observations about art (specifically art for sale on eBay):
- Most “digital art” turns me off. If you took a fantastic picture and used PhotoShop to punch it up a little, than I believe that’s art. If you sliced-and-diced a couple of digital images so it doesn’t look like a photo anymore, that’s doodling. If you take a picture and reverse the colors into color-negative, that is not art. It is doodling. Yes, I know I have digital art on my Gallery, but I don’t for one second take it seriously, and I will most likely be using those enhanced photos as reference to do actual paintings. Just my opinion.
- Art (on eBay) that is categorized as “brut”, “folk”, or “primitive” should actually be categorized as “I never learned to draw.” Do a search and you’ll see what I mean. “Outsider Art” usually means the same thing, but it often shows a lot more skill than the others.
The job interview I had last Thursday (the arts job) went very well, I think. I got a really good vibe. I could be wrong. After all, they haven’t called me back. I sent a nice thank-you letter to the lead interviewer. I would have sent one to everyone on the panel, but there were six of them and I could only remember five of their names. I thought it would be crass to leave one person out, so I just asked the lead person to thank the panel for me. I probably won’t get this job, mostly because I really, really want it. Oh, well.
I’m trying to finish my current collage because I’ve been in the mood to paint, and I can’t get out the paints until I get all the collage materials put away. Believe me, collage requires a LOT more space than painting. Not quite as much as printmaking, but close. The collage is going pretty well; I’m satisfied with the composition and the execution, but now I’m working on the finishing. Paintings are pretty easy to finish; either varnish them or frame them under glass. Collages require a little more thought. For example, I don’t want the finish on this one to be the same across the image; I want part of the image to be matte, some texured, and some to be more satin-finished, and possibly some gloss. This means I have to apply different acrylic mediums to different portions, and I probably won’t be able to varnish the finished piece and will need to frame it under glass, which has its own set of problems. I wanted to start working on Claybord so I could varnish my collages and not worry about glass, but I didn’t think about varying the finish. Decisions, decisions.
I was reflecting this morning while listening to an article on NPR about the National Book Awards on how my love for art supersedes my love of writing. Writing, I observed, is very hard work. It is demanding. It takes months, even years, to complete a novel, especially a good one. But you could spend a year writing drivel, and you’d have lost a year. You didn’t learn anything. Writing has been described as “embracing the beast.” You sit down and face a blank page or a blinking cursor which demands you to suddenly be brilliant. I love the finished product, but I don’t like the process, which is, I’ve come to realize, why I’m not a published author.
Art is completely different for me. It’s easy, but challenging. Even if I’m not in the mood to work, within five minutes of taking up the project I’m immersed, engaged, involved; enthralled. I become the process. Unlike writing, I can see almost immediately when something’s not working. I can change it, or scrap it, and I’m out only a half-hour or so. Art allows me to be much more prolific. I turned out 31 works of art (of varying degrees of skill) in a month. Every piece I work on teaches me something new and valuable about the medium, the technique, and about myself. Books about writing bore me. Books about art amaze me.
I’m not saying that art isn’t hard. I’m just saying it’s a much more enjoyable occupation than pretty much anything I’ve ever done.
Funny aside: I told K that I was waiting at a stop-light near the house when some OCD guy walked up the corner and smacked the “Walk” signal button 15 times, twice. She said, “15? You counted?” “Yes, ” I said. She replied, “And you thought he was OCD?”
