Exploration Through Art

Ignorance is like a pinpoint of a perspective. It is a restricted view, not unlike Plato’s shadows on the wall. Through knowledge life becomes illuminated and we can piece together the puzzle in our minds to form a broader, if less definitive view of the world.

Knowledge is important because increases the capacity for prediction. We can theorize an outcome and test it through action. A positive outcome is not a conclusion, but it is evidence for a theory. A negative conclusion is evidence against it. This is applicable in many capacities, in science, politics, economics, ecology, sociology. All forms of study seek to gather knowledge so that it is possible to predict an outcome. When an outcome is positively predicted enough times it can be considered a truth within a certain set of criteria. By behaving based upon observation we can create positive predictions in order to direct the dynamics of a particular environment.

Change can be a source of anxiety because new conditions make for less informed predictions. The danger of uninformed predictions can result in pain, uncertainty and even death. Though change can be precarious it can also lead to a richer life through useful innovation. It is normal to be apprehensive of such exploration, but through it new things may be accomplished.

For me art is the ultimate exploration. Art is an avenue for broadening perspective. It is a way to see things in many different lights. It is a method of understanding new things, and evaluating unusual situations. It is way to experience and experiment. I enjoy making new (sometimes tenuous) connections. I want to find connections for all of life, and the entire world. I crowd my mind with so many things that it feels as scattered as grapeshot; dots of ideas spread all over, connected in a complex and often incomprehensible matrix. Dancing, business, friends, literature from the past, predictions for the future, sex, math, neurology, current events, political rhetoric, the scientific method are all related in my mind. It is from all these things I try to cull a cohesive narrative or at least a semblance of meaning. For me the playful meandering through thought often results in an illuminating experience. It’s not only how I create, it is how I comprehend.

Vulnerability

My sculpture of Samson came about without any specific intent in the beginning. I began by creating a pained male figure, contemplating something within his hands. I wanted him to look powerful, yet alone. I finished building the figure before I was to discover what he was to become.

I was inspired by 17th century baroque sculptures. Their faces and forms have an expressive, almost mannerist quality. An obvious example of this would be Bernini’s quixotic sculpture, The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa. Her supremely expressive visage conveys an almost palpable sense of immense pleasure.

The Spanish also sculpted many expressive and vivid portraits. Life size figures with a level of realism that is seldom displayed in sculpture.

Realism isn’t always a goal of mine, but I do wish to create a countenance that stirs empathy. I wanted this figure to have flesh that seemed tangible. So I gave him a pale forehead, one that looked feverish, lurid eyes and full hanging lips. I wanted the viewer to feel that if they reached out and held their hands to his cheek he would feel it and respond to the warmth of their fingertips.

I was somehow reminded of the story of Samson and Delilah. I had a vague recollection of the story which was taught to me growing up as a Biblical lesson. Samson, I remembered, was given the gift of immense strength so that he may serve the Lord. His power would remain if he did not cut his hair, and therefore he must keep the source of his strength a secret. He was foolishly seduced by Delilah, and for this woman he disobeyed God and told her this sacred secret. He was punished greatly for his disobedience. Samson had a great gift bestowed upon him, and threw it away because of his lust. As a young girl I suppose this made sense, but as an adult I tried to imagine why Samson would give up such a gift.

To brush up on this tale, a few friends and I held kind of a Bible study and worked together to divine the meaning. (Truly it was the most entertaining Bible study I had ever attended.) In the version we read I think that Samson was married to Delilah. Samson was murdering the Philistine people for God, and as you might expect, the Philistines wanted Samson dead. Delilah was given money to betray Samson. She threatened to distrust his love if he did not reveal the secret to his powers. He lied and said, "If anyone ties me with seven fresh thongs that have not been dried, I will become as weak as any other man." That night he was attacked in this manner. This happened several more times, and each time Delilah said that if he truly loved her he would tell the truth. Samson, who was obviously desperately in love with this woman, eventually revealed the truth to her. He was then attacked, his hair was cut, his hands were bound and had his eyes gouged out.

In the story, Samson knew that Delilah had betrayed him before he ever gave up his secret. Samson willful sacrificed himself to a woman who would see him killed. He let her bind him and destroy him so that he might prove his love for her. He must have had an immense desire to share his secret, at any cost.

Samson effectively wields this scissors himself, makes himself bleed, creates his own demise for the pleasure of another. I don't view his character as foolish, or wicked but as a man whose desperation, loneliness and devotion are his greatest weaknesses.

Famous Blue Raincoat

Leonard Cohen has long been a source of inspiration for me. His words and his voice have a richness that only comes from years of effort and layers of meaning and sound. One of my favorite songs that he has written is Famous Blue Raincoat.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=fvwp&v=7pXBisteRms&NR=1

It's four in the morning, the end of December
I'm writing you now just to see if you're better
New York is cold, but I like where I'm living
There's music on Clinton Street all through the evening.
I hear that you're building your little house deep in the desert
You're living for nothing now, I hope you're keeping some kind of record.

Yes, and Jane came by with a lock of your hair
She said that you gave it to her
That night that you planned to go clear
Did you ever go clear?

Ah, the last time we saw you you looked so much older
Your famous blue raincoat was torn at the shoulder
You'd been to the station to meet every train
And you came home without Lili Marlene

And you treated my woman to a flake of your life
And when she came back she was nobody's wife.

Well I see you there with the rose in your teeth
One more thin gypsy thief
Well I see Jane's awake --

She sends her regards.

And what can I tell you my brother, my killer
What can I possibly say?
I guess that I miss you, I guess I forgive you
I'm glad you stood in my way.

If you ever come by here, for Jane or for me
Your enemy is sleeping, and his woman is free.

Yes, and thanks, for the trouble you took from her eyes
I thought it was there for good so I never tried.

And Jane came by with a lock of your hair
She said that you gave it to her
That night that you planned to go clear --

Sincerely, L. Cohen

For me, it is not the melody that strikes me so much about Leonard Cohen’s songs as much as particular lyrics and the way they are sung, always slowly and with sincerity.

One common theme in my art is the idea of social boundaries. Things that hold us back. Psychological and social pressures that are as strong and implacable as iron.

In Famous Blue Raincoat he sings nostalgically of a woman whom he once knew, that has resurfaced in his life. He is thinking of her at four in the morning. She has aged and worn, like everyone does, but still holds the same life. It is not this woman, but how he speaks of his own wife which interests me. He sings, “And you treated my woman to a flake of your life, And when she came back she was nobody's wife.” They are melancholy lyrics. It is no wonder he is thinking of this woman so early in the morning. He has had presumably years to affect and influence his own wife, and this woman changes her in a single night, or day or maybe an instance. Later in the song he sings the words, “Yes, and thanks, for the trouble you took from her eyes, I thought it was there for good so I never tried.” I think it is remarkable, the idea of a man realizing this alteration in his woman, this new freedom. Freedom from what? From trouble? From restraint? I can’t really tell. It is interesting that he would feel gratitude and relief even though the change would be a great sacrifice. What has changed? Nothing had changed in the way of titles or roles. She was granted absolution from some sort of mental responsibility, and he lost something even more abstract.

I relate to this song. Most of you know that I require a certain level of freedom. I need the liberty to work and to think. I sometimes feel like I want to abandon all life, to run away from my job, and from family, from friends and responsibility. I want to climb and run and hide high up in the mountains like Zarathustra, in the hope that I would have the time to discover some kind of knowledge, something unique and incredible to share with the world. But of course, those kinds of ideas are not hidden up in mountains. They can only be forged from life’s experiences, from human interaction. Besides I likely would end up like Zarathustra, running through crowds shouting out riddles that no other soul would comprehend.

For what it is worth, I am grateful for the sacrifices that others have made for me. I am fortunate that I am sometimes allowed time for mental emancipation and the ability to create. That small flake of freedom means the world to me.

Interpetation - or why I am abandoning a linear way of thinking

I often have difficulty of over thinking my work. Those of you who know me realize that my head is always crowded with ideas. The problem is I am obsessed with facts. Not the perception of facts, which I feel free to shift, but I am obsessed with logic in the most Enlightenment sense of the word. It is difficult for me to keep silent when someone speaks of an idea in which there is certain knowledge contradicting them. It is also difficult for me to make arbitrary decisions. Why should a decision be arbitrary when it can be purposeful? However I do often make intuitive decisions. Decisions which feel right and even necessary, but which I cannot explain. My intuitive decisions are often my best, both in terms of concept and visuals.

For the most part my art is meticulously thought out. My statements for each project reflect a concentrated and researched pattern of thought. I try to make sense of every piece of my creation. Once everything is in its place I can feel satisfied. I can explain almost everything. Yet the pieces which I can’t explain hold the most meaning for me. Those pieces, I call art. Here lies my dilemma.

Art is not a convergent science. Two plus two will mean a different thing to every artist, and that is the beauty of art. What were absolute truths for the Greeks are not truths for us. The ideals of the ancient culture have been tested by thousands of years of human experience, comedies and tragedies on a grand scale. Perhaps that is why Greek sculptures are considered genius works of art, and the very similar neo-classical works are often regarded as talented but superficial forms of nostalgia. Art is an exploration. It is how I see and interpret and understand the world. The world is not black and white but a whole prismatic spectrum of tints and shades. I seek to perceive the world, not draw absolute conclusions for it.

With these ideas I will create a new logic for my art. If my best art is intuitive, and what I wish to communicate is not absolute, I must stop treating my work like an equation. It cannot be a literal translation from words into visuals. It must be an expression of my contemplations. It is only logical.

Still.

There is something about the simplicity of a still life that makes it both accessible and easy to overlook. Still lifes consist of stationary objects; some fruit, a gilded goblet, glistening oysters, the carcass of an animal . . . all inanimate, with exception of the occasional pestilence. They are often passed over in museums, an inefficient use of time to pause and admire when surrounded by scores of brilliant master pieces. Guests tend to focus on beautifully rendered figures and larger works of great historical significance. In fact 19th century classicism taught that there was a hierarchy of artistic subject matter, with historical and religious subject matter given the most reverence, and still life relegated to the lowest rung.

Yet there is a truth in the simplicity of a still life which often seems unattainable in a figurative piece. A portrait is like a snap shot, a moment frozen, a piece of time to be recreated in our minds. A still life has a direct relation to life in the way we experience it. That fleeting moment in a portrait would have existed for just a fraction of a second. We do not experience life in moments of frozen time, we experience life with movement. But a still life conveys what actually was, the way we live it. A butcher’s shop might have hung racks of meat, day after day for years on end. A bowl of fruit could have laid on the table for days with very little change to the color and ripeness. These objects existed throughout the centuries, without movement, in the same way we have and will always experience them.

Personally I am drawn to vanitas, those sumptuous Dutch inventions reminding us of time passing. A candle burning, an open book, a clock ticking, fruit that has just begun to turn. The crisp cleanliness of ordinary items creates a mood of unexpected indulgence. The ripe velvety blush of peach skin becomes a luxury; an array of fruit becomes fecundate visual feast of colors, textures and full round shapes. Everyday life is an indulgence. Our senses are a privilege. Touches, smells and tastes, are beautiful senses, too often forgotten and taken for granted. The vanitas are a reminder, enticing us to indulge, and reminding us that the pleasures of the flesh are ephemeral.

Some still lifes ironically are portraits of death. A slaughter calf, meat, and game, pheasants hanging, all tokens of human superiority and of consumption. I find it interesting, that If you put a human corpse into the painting it becomes a portrait of a dead man. It is no longer a still life. It is easy to forget that we too are animals. Instead of viewing decomposing meat, it is much easier to focus on the soul of the dead man. I have always wanted to create a still life of a hunting scene and include a human being, changing the theme of the still life from the theme of mankind as the conqueror to a vanquished man. A static portrait and a literal vanita.

Wishing to understand my attraction to static compositions, I decided to speak to a fellow artist Anastasia, about the genre. She pointed out that no matter the subject, medium or genre, the essential elements of painting exist within the still life. Not only do you notice principles such as balance, repetition and contrast, but these elements become highlighted without a dynamic subject matter to distract from them. It is also the lack of dynamism in a still life which makes it so remarkable. In her experience, as we live with the studied objects and experience them we begin to understand them. She said that she once worked on a still life for six months straight. She had nearly finished and begun to move on to other paintings. Not long had passed before she came back again to the same painting. It was only then, after six months of observation that she finally understood and comprehended what she was seeing.

My sculptures “Courtesan”, was once named “Still Life with Flowers”. She sat atop of chest full of drawers which contained beautiful textural ordinary objects, such as tools and cloth. In her hands she presented dried red roses. The aim in creating her was to highlight the beauty of daily life. For many of us, life is not constant change. We fall into ruts and we carry out mundane routines. There is richness in these unchanging patterns, and a beauty in the mastering of simple actions. I had wished to convey that with my simple figure. I believe that is why I create static compositions. A dynamic pose will never have the movement of a ballet or a film. I create things, as I see them, still, and enticing contemplation. It is why I named my figure “Still Life”. It was only after she fell, was broken, and then of course mended, that she took upon the meaning of a Courtesan.