THE ARTIST’S STORY
I’ve been advising people on their artist statements for awhile now (see my entry for 3/30/03 “The Artist Bio/Statement--Tips for Making Yours Memorable, Personal--and Quotable”.) You can click today's title or go here to see it: http://jonudell.net/radio-luann/2003/03/30.html#a13
I’ve been fine-tuning my artist statement for eight years now. You’d think I’d have it down, right?
Not. The last few months, it’s been achingly clear to me it's time to tackle it again.
Why? Because as diligent as I’ve been about crafting a beautiful story, as articulate as I’ve been in talking about my work, as honest as I am with myself, I’ve still been guilty of hedging.
As usual, there have been lots of threads and signs and thoughts weaving in and out of my life lately indicating it was coming to this. First was my visit to Christina Bothwell’s website featuring her hauntingly beautiful work—and her simple artist statement. It’s about three sentences long and will take your breath away.
Next, I heard from another artist who take the same on-line class I did last week. I commented that her story (which she shared a little with me) did not show up in her comments about her work. And her comments (which were a wee bit dry and technical) did not add power to her work, while her story was powerful enough to generate lightning. She said maybe it was time to take that next step, and I agreed. Then I realized, if she could be so brave about her painful story, maybe I should be a little braver about mine (which is not painful at all.)
Yesterday, I made a last minute trip to Boston to visit the Museum of Fine Arts. Of course, my kids had to see the mummies on display there. I also saw examples of Coptic funeral paintings off to the side. I hadn’t realized these portraits of the deceased were actually affixed to their wrapped bodies. It hit me hard, seeing those ancient burial wrappings with those beautiful faces gazing out peacefully at me. One was the small body of a child (or "youth", as the card euphemistically informed me.) As I stood on the other side of the glass, their message struck me.
“Remember me....”
It’s the desire to have something remain after we leave this world, a heartbreakingly poignant desire to be remembered when we are gone.
When *I* am gone....
And that’s what my artist statement has skipped around gently all these years. Who will know the makings of MY hands? And who will know the mysteries of MY heart?
It’s not ALL about me, of course. Except that I'm the head I rattle around in, so it tends to be the one I'm concerned with.
Where the poignancy is: It's not death per se we fear. It's that no one will know our life, or who we were. It's the fear we will be forgotten. That we will disappear, as if we'd never been here in the first place.
The cave paintings of Lascaux may not have been directly driven by this need. The current thinking is, they were calling the horses back. They were afraid their life was "disappearing", to be sure. But the hands didn't mean to say "Remember me". The hands probably said, "Come back! Things are changing and we are afraid! We don't want to die!" The effect, of course, however unintentional, is we DO remember them, 15,000 years later.
Because what they made survived them. We see their handprints, we see the little animals they carved, we see the great images of running horses they left behind. They may not have planned it that way. But the beauty of what they left, that speaks worlds. We cannot even read their message, but we know they left one.
And that's the final "twist" that gets me. We have no control over HOW we will be remembered, if we even are. We cannot live with that goal in mind. We can simply live, and make what we need to make, and do what we need to do. And leave. The remembering is up to others. Not us.
If I feel this way, then, being human, I can assume that most other humans feel this way, too. And by connecting with that yearning in MY heart, my art—the makings of my hands—will speak to the hearts of others.
It's hard work, getting down to the nitty gritty of why you believe you were put on this earth to do the work you do. And it's scary. Why? I think it's sort of like my friend said, who recently got her black belt in karate. Her sensei told her, "Don't tell me what's hard for you, or what you're scared of, because we'll use it against you in your black belt test!" Telling the world where your heart lies feels like exposing yourself to the same kind of vulnerability.
But to be the most powerful artist you can be, it has to be done. Because the minute you truly KNOW why you have to do what you do, your work will reflect that. It will reflect that power that's in you.
It’s time to do the hard work, again, and say that.
It’s a process.
Just like my art.
Just like my life.
