Art Talk
To pick up and expand upon what Donald Kuspit wrote in 1980, abstraction is not merely surface decoration, but artistic unconvention that can imply depth of meaning with a rawness and directness that no representational art, whatever its methods, can begin to fathom. It is a means to enter the depths that representationalism can only suggest as a nuance of the surface of objects.
Figurative art, for example, can portray emotions and feelings in human faces, but cannot in any way delineate the forces that cause these expressions. Perhaps this is partly because most western societies, and particularly the U.S., do not meet the need for meaning, for a sense of the profundity of life.
The best of modern art, especially abstraction, attempts to find and express that depth of meaning and significance in an increasingly banal and materialistic world.
I had quite an astounding series of experiences the other day, starting around 2am, when I experienced a huge pool of blocked energy in the right side of my lower back that was dark — not negative or destructive or evil, just dark — and that I needed to extend out my right arm fully to release it.
Later on, around 9, I went into the studio and worked for a while on two small (40x30) black-and-white pieces, and then turned my attention to a much larger canvas (66x54) that I had already prepared with a heavily-textured background of various shades of off-whites.
I mixed up a huge amount of black paint, and, using a very large palette knife, went to work. Because of the canvas size, I of course got to extend my arms and body full-length.
The result was amazing. All that trapped energy was released, and I was jumping up and down, laughing and shouting in total joy, awe and wonder. Wow!!!!
Every single time I look at them I am overcome with a myriad of feelings, including joy, delight, tears, awe and wonder. I think the process is indelibly etched into the canvases.
I treated all three the same — creating heavily-textured backgrounds, then mixing up a substantial portion of paint, and having but one go at each canvas. Sort of like the ink-on-rice-paper process of the zen masters. One shot — all or nothing. No changes, additions, amendments.
So they are very powerful and meaningful, to me.
I have been reflecting upon art as an offering, to oneself, the community, humanity, earth, spirit. As such, the artist cannot have expectations of anything coming back, even praise and encouragement, for as an offering, it is freely given as an expression of one's innermost being. Indeed, a gift, a giveaway.
As for commoditization — certainly these times are ones of overwhelming materiality, yet the artist in some way must stand outside this, in order to create from the deepest levels of self, to be authentic, to speak the truth.
So all this makes me grateful that I am not immersed in the art market per se, the gallery scene. But then the challenges of wanting the work to be seen and experienced by others, in person, becomes even more poignant.
Clearly, an ongoing process and continuing inner dialogue.
Someone recently asked how I know when a painting is finished. Good question!
For me, there is a feeling of completion inside, that the process has reached a conclusion. Going on would only ruin the piece.
Then I "live" with the painting for a time, placing it where I can look at it regularly. Occasionally I will then add more, but only rarely.
In the end, though, I would say that a painting is never finished. It only reaches a stopping point.
Up until a relatively short time ago, I believed that selling a piece would validate my worth as an artist. With my experiences over the past several months, I no longer need that validation — I deeply appreciate my paintings, and even more so, the process by which they are created.
On the other hand, selling my first piece is certainly another big step along my unfolding art path, wherever it may lead, and I definitely honor that, as well as having someone respond to the work by purchasing it.
It is clearly a further recognition of my focus and determination; of the efforts of photographing lots of paintings and creating the gallery section of my web site; and of the creative force that moves through me.
Looking at art is an experience. The moment we begin to think and/or talk about it, the experience is gone, and then we are simply telling a story about our experience.
I began painting about a month after my father died. The impulse to do so seemingly came out of nowhere, with such force that it could not be denied. Although I began playing classical piano in childhood, which continues today, art was not at all encouraged in my family. I remember reading once that the death of a parent frees one in some way, and this is the form it took for me.
I paint with acrylics on canvas in a style best described as abstract expressionism, in the spirit of Jackson Pollock, Franz Kline, Mark Rothko and Willem de Kooning, drawing upon personal experiences and the natural world. In my work I explore the edges of awareness, where the conscious and the unconscious intertwine, through the play of color and form. My interest is in the power of art to uplift, inspire, challenge and transform.
In that sense, the process of painting is often therapy — issues come up and/or are reflected in the work. One recent piece ("For all those...") is a great case in point. It began looking like a de Kooning, and then like a Kline, but was still unsatisfying. Finally, after a few hours it became an Emrys, and along the way I got in touch with just how repressive an influence my father was in terms of my creative expression and ability to be true to myself.
Whenever I look at the painting, I feel a mixture of joy and sorrow. Joy in finally being authentic, real, and having greatly liberated myself from childhood, and sorrow at how long it took, and how different it might have been if my father had been able to meet and accept me for who I am, rather than as a projection of his own desires.
The ideas and shapes in my painting come from within, from thoughts, feelings, visions, nature. The important thing is to let the energies flow, and from that space to allow the paint and colors to form their own shapes.
When I first began working on a much larger canvas than I had ever done — 60" x 54" — I simply stood in front of it for awhile, and after several minutes the image of a color to start with came into my mind. So I mixed up some paint and began, without preconceived notions of what strokes, forms, shapes, and so on to use. In other words, the painting created itself.
I think that too many ideas ruin the whole thing. For me, painting needs to be free, expressive, unlimited. In other words, just paint! Try it for yourself. Be bold — use wide strokes, whole body motions, big brushes and palette knives. See what emerges... you will be amazed!!
Paintings, like people, need room to breathe, expand, and express their essence.
For me, a painting does not end at the edges of the canvas, but goes on forever. The edge is simply a stopping place. And since they are powerful expressions of my inner landscape I in no way wish to limit them, nor for them to be limited, by frames or anything else.
What is the purpose of my life? What is the purpose of art in general, and my art in particular? What is the function of the artist relative to society? What constitutes success, or failure? What are the yardsticks?
© 2003-2005 Merlin Emrys. All Rights Reserved.