Being a Successful Artist
To be successful as an artist, for me, requires that I am painting at a level of mastery. Right now, I paint well. I have paintings that work; I have moments where what I know and what I want to accomplish come together in a piece of art that is, plainly said, nice to look at. Most of the time, however, I feel as if I’m scrambling half blind, caught between trying to incorporate what I’m learning with completing a well-done picture.
Perhaps, I’d be better off to stick with what has worked for me already and push lightly at the edges of knowledge, and then do study work at a different time. Maybe I’m trying too hard. I almost don’t have fun. When I think about what I’ve done or look at the last piece of work, there’s a sinking feeling of dis-satisfaction. I seem to be impatient. I want to paint as well as Richard Schmid NOW. As Bob Wiley said, “baby steps, baby steps, baby steps…”
I listen to Neil Young and I think for a moment that I too can write a song as great as one of his; I grab the guitar, finger pick the couple usual chords, open my mouth and nothing comes out. I put the guitar down, surprised for a brief moment, and then remember: that’s Neil Young! He’s not one of the greatest songwriters for no reason. Sometimes I even do this after listening to Bob Dylan. Good grief. The point is, some people are so good at what they do, it looks effortless. Maybe for Neil and Bob, it always was, but I’m sure that for Sargent or Rembrandt or Richard Schmid, there was a time of learning – a lot of times of learning. The difference for them was how quickly they absorbed enough information to reach a point of mastery.
I have it in me. I look at the work of those I’m most inspired by, and what lures me into the art is the impulse to create something on that level. I have never felt this when looking at Rodin, Jackson Pollack, Kadinsky, or even Salvador Dali (and I did go through a surrealist stage… in my early twenties). When I see work by my favorite artists, I am seeing my own potential. Perhaps I will never realize this potential, but I nevertheless am inspired by what is already within me. I wonder if it’s this way for everybody. We see what we could do if we only overcame whatever limitations are in us, and we feel a zesty excitement. Have you ever seen guys after watching a kung-fu movie? I’ve seen grown men throwing kicks in the air outside a movie theater; I might have been one myself. That’s in them, but it doesn’t come out because they believe in how hard it is to become a kung-fu master or whatever it is (pro athlete, rock star, etc…).
I like the idea that we can be or do or have anything that we desire. I accept the massive limitations on that (such as obeying gravity) and still chalk it all up to belief. We didn’t believe we could fly until visionary inventors persuaded us with their ideas.
So, what’s keeping me back? My beliefs of course, but what are those. Perhaps I believe that I have to struggle for a long, long time before I can paint at the level with Sargent. I’d like to not believe that, even in the face of so much opposition. And then, what exactly does it mean to paint at the level of Sargent? I don’t want to paint just like Sargent or even as much as he did. I just want to be much better than I’m currently showing myself to be.
My goal of becoming a successful artist is laden with many foggy notions of what I’m after. I state my goal as being a successful artist so as to have something to measure. Essentially, I want to master enough aspects to painting that I can experience more freedom in my expression. Interestingly, as I’m so focused on how to say things (with painting), I don’t seem to have much to actually say.
I think I’ve reached the point of why I’m writing: what I have learned today while painting a large barn in a thunderstorm, sitting cross-legged for three hours in the back of my little Suburu station-wagon, is that no matter how fancifully I handle my brush, it will not matter unless I am compelled with an emotional response to my subject. Going further, it is important to pull through each stroke the intent to tell that story of my emotional response. Looking at the small study I made today, I see aspects where I did just this and I see aspects where I just wanted to be done (my legs hurting, my blood-sugar dropping, etc.).
I’ll take the piece to the studio tomorrow and see if I can complete the little story of a barn in the rain. Hopefully, I’ll still have something to say about it. If not, I’ll wipe it clean and resist the temptation to just add another piece to my portfolio.