I had a weekend last at the thing I love that fell light
years short of my expectations.
Festivals are a crap shoot (at best), but this one was especially brutal
– complete with near zero financial return, unrequested emotional stumbles down
unresolved memory lanes and a Sunday rain-out fiasco of epic proportions as a
finale. So be it. In spite of my perception however, I hung out
with some first-rate humans, made a few dear new friends, enjoyed fine festival
food, re-read a favorite book and didn’t do whatever nonsense it was that I did
last weekend. I even saw the Atlanta
Symphony Orchestra Brass Quintet Sunday morning, so there is a lot of positive tucked
inside of the ball of shit that was my VAHI, but all I’ve been able to see to
this point is the negative. For whatever
reason, in my mind, this was supposed to be the show – I didn’t sell a single piece on festival grounds. It’s hard to see the good in a weekend where
you don’t even make your booth fee.
The hundred feet square of my tent and a few feet in front of
and in back – that’s my domain. That’s
where I shine. That’s where I feel
whole; my hallowed ground, right? It’s
the no bullshit zone that I can’t
seem to locate consistently in my day-to-day.
It’s where I’m honest, where I truly pull back the curtain and let the curious inside this circus. I protect those four walls and everything
inside like it’s the Alamo
and I’m Davy Freakin’ Crockett. I’m Eddie
Van Halen, Live Without a Net, I’m Social
Distortion that glorious night at The
Roxy, I’m The Beatles on the roof
of Apple Records. It’s the safest and
most creative and inspiring circumstance that I’ve discovered in this world
thus far but the gilded walls of my self-imagined cathedral came crumbling down
last weekend. In spite of my
aspirations, I was Nero as my Rome
It was my first juried show and I was undoubtedly
apprehensive of that fact. There is a
certain amount of truth to the assessment that I went into this deal with a
chip on my shoulder. Saturday morning
late, a member of the jury remarked, as she jotted her thoughts on a clipboard,
about how she loved the assault of color
in my paintings. At the time, I said
some suck-up something like, “Life needs color, no?” In hindsight what I should have said was,
“You can leave now”. Her intent may well
have been harmless but it galled me to my very core. If all you see is color then you aren’t seeing
anything – you aren’t hearing a single word I’ve tried not to say. Because it doesn’t fit into the polite little
box that you’ve labeled art doesn’t
mean that it doesn’t belong there or that it isn’t in fact art. I felt like a retarded
kid in a class full of prodigies. In all
honesty, I was devastated by her flippant comment but I blew it off. Yes, I read way too much into it and it most
likely was indeed a well intentioned compliment – she seemed like a nice enough
lady – but my handling of that two minute exchange wrecked my confidence in the
work for the balance of the weekend. I
emotionally and physically retreated to the safety of behind the curtain after that.
I didn’t defend my perimeter and as a result I was defeated, but
why? The only fossil of explanation that
I can uncover is fear.
I readily admit that not selling at this show was as embarrassing
as anything I’ve ever experienced publicly and embodies my greatest fear prior to going public: that
thought alone prevented me from putting brush or knife to canvas at all for a
lot of time. It doesn’t really matter
that the only artist making bank last
weekend was the old birdhouse couple from North Georgia .
Maybe it was just a weird crowd. Maybe the threat of weather kept the buyers away. Maybe it was simply a zombie walk and there’s nothing that I could have done about
it. Maybe a million different
explanations exist but none of them have assuaged the sense of failure that I
felt and still feel at some level. The
big question is though will I let fear
preclude me from jumping into the ring again?
Hopefully it goes without saying that the answer to that question at
this point in my life is a resounding “no!”
I always knew this eventuality was a risk but for whatever
reason I was willing and able to take the plunge, to fully put myself out there. Going public wasn’t easy the first time and
it never will be for me. I’m physically sick
and emotionally wrought with doubt and fear
the days leading up to a show, absolutely sleepless the night before – nearly
unrecognizable to myself by opening morning.
I don’t see that changing anytime soon so I can’t think that it’s a bad
thing. It’s just what is.
So now what? I just
keep being me, you know? If you don’t
like color, you’re never going to like what I do. If you don’t want to see emotion, look
elsewhere. If you don’t want to observe
the expressive possibility of a human being, then stay home. Don’t play.
I’m not satisfied with the outcome of the last festival but I won’t let that
prevent me from moving forward. I won’t,
I can’t let the fear of not being
this thing or that terminate or in any way extinguish my desire to produce
positive. I won’t debate the merits of
what art is, but I will continue to show
you what I think it is. And if you think
art is something else, that’s fine
but I can’t not be me. The colors are
only going to become more defined and vibrant.
The canvases are only going to get larger, the ideas more personal. Whatever I decide to do next is exactly what
I will do. If what I do pisses you off,
buckle up – it’s only going to get worse.
I would love to experience the supposed validation that
selling tons of work in public would give me and I have. It’s surprisingly hollow, and if that’s all I
want then I’ve forgotten why I started doing this in the first place over half
a lifetime ago. I make art for myself and I refuse to let my fear of it slow down the momentum I’m
building. I’ve lost sight of that truth
and unfortunately replaced it with a false desire to sell. If I never sell another piece, I’ve already
won.
I’ve already won, because I didn’t and won’t allow myself to
be satisfied. Show me an artist who is content
with his work and I will show you a dead man.
For that matter, show me a man who is satisfied with his life and I will
show you the same. If you don’t want
more, regardless of how you define “more” then what is the point of living? There is no imaginary line in the sand that
once you cross all is well. You have to
keep pushing. You have to keep digging. You have to keep moving forward. Ultimately, you have to allow yourself to
change and adapt – things that don’t, fade away and are forgotten and then they
die.
As a prelude to the inevitable Sunday night meltdown, I
enjoyed a conciliatory perfect steak and libations with some bros. I thought about something an old friend had recently
inadvertently reminded me of from my roots – something that I had forgotten to be
aware of recently. She’d been away from
the South for a while and still recognized it when she returned – I’ve been
here basically forever and have missed it almost every time it shows up, real world blinders or whatever. She spoke freely but I’ll paraphrase. There’s a soft “comforting orange light to
the South” in the summer time, especially just before and right after a sun
shower that I’ve never experienced anywhere else on earth. If I can’t paint what that feels like, then
I’m not an artist. More importantly
though, if I don’t allow myself to see and internalize what that feels like then
I might not be alive at all. If my
innate fear of what you will
perceive me as prevents me from seeing it, then I’m not only not an artist, but
worse I’m a coward too.
I know what art
is, and I’m well aware that the singular responsibility of expressing it
doesn’t reside within me alone. I do
feel compelled to express how I see it though.
How I see art and its
unshakeable lover fear, are critical
to my understanding of how I live life.
I see art in every movement
of this planet, but I see fear on
display more often. I want art to win.
I can’t be afraid of that “orange light” or any other
emotion. You might not always like what
I see, but I can’t unsee it and I can’t not feel it and I can’t not paint
it. My love of making it prevents me
from being afraid of your perception of my art. My love of art insists that I make more, and continue to suppress the fear of you hating it.
Most days it’s the only thing I do that makes any sense to
me.
…but it ain’t no contribution…
to
rely on an institution…
to
validate your chosen art
and
to sanction your boredom
and
let you play out your part.
–
Jim Carroll
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