“Art… is an area where it is impossible to walk without stumbling. There are in store for you many unsuccessful days and whole unsuccessful seasons: there will be great misunderstandings and deep disappointments… you must be prepared for all this, expect it and nevertheless, stubbornly, fanatically follow your own way.”
This was said by Anton Chekhov (1860-1904), Russian playwright and short story writer, who lived and died over a hundred twenty years ago. I remember the first professional live theatrical production I ever saw was Chekhov’s “The Cherry Tree” performed in 1969 at a theatre in Oxford, England. I had hitchhiked (you could do that then) to spend the day wandering the narrow alleyways of Oxford. At that time, it only cost a few shillings for a ticket. I had been completely entranced. Ever since I’ve been in love with live theatre. His writing opened my eyes to the power of art.
When I came across this quote recently, of course I thought of my own trials and disappointments. Years of drawing; experimenting and exploring. Still it continues. In order to begin anew, I must come to terms with the ever present potential of falling short.
Desert Nymphs was started more than three years ago. The composition was conceived from a collection of figure sketches completed in live model sessions over quite a few years. I embarked on three panels each 48” x 36” - a new experiment. Since then, these nine nymphs have waited patiently, enduring several relocations. Recently, I propped them in my hallway so that we could become reacquainted - ahh, the fits and starts of the creative process. This week, cacti were placed in the foreground. There is much still to do. Progress can be slow and halting and sometimes delightfully surprising.
Desert Nymphs #2 48” x 36”
From sculpture to ice skating, from poetry to ballet, from theatre to a symphony, the audience is presented with the finished form. We might be awed and seduced into forgetting the often anguished creative process that is invisible to the audience; the behind-the-scenes mess. In this way, I suppose art is deceptive - like magic - a form of conjuring.
I wonder if that has something to do with the myth of innate talent; the assumption that great art spontaneously generates, with little effort. I doubt there is such a thing. For me, each new piece, is akin to climbing a new mountain. Again and again, I summon the courage to begin. Taking the first step, I forge forward one more time.
This reminds me of a story that’s told about Picasso. (Not sure if it’s true.) A woman asks the artist for a napkin on which he had been doodling.
Picasso replied, “It will cost 40,000 francs.”
The woman complained, “But it only took you ten minutes!”
“Madame,” Picasso replied, “it took me forty years to learn to do that in ten minutes.”
Still, even after forty years, perhaps even for Picasso, each painting is its own journey to an unknown destination. Maybe this explains the ambivalence felt at the outset of each new piece; excitement, but also fear.
Each new piece is a journey through new terrain. No matter how many times I’ve set out before, each new piece is a mapless journey that has never been walked before. But creative desire springs eternal. It fuels a willingness to birth again. For me, in surrender the Divine appears.
I am now married to the process. I know it well, understand it, and recognize its idiosyncrasies. I expect the trepidation, the doubt, the ups and downs. I embrace it and continue breathing. There is a steadiness, a predictability, even a sweetness, in putting one foot in front of the other. When the summit is reached, the view is worth the climb… and another comes into view.
Thank you for letting me share. I wish you well on your journey.
Desert Nymphs #3 48” x 36”