A recurring theme has come up in conversations lately. It's the idea that, when your art is fresh and new, it may behoove you NOT to share it with the world right away.
This seems so contrary to my usual advice, which is to tell, tell, tell people the stories behind your art. I do firmly believe that when we tell our stories, other people connect. And connection benefits both the collector (who gets emotionally fulfilling art for their home) and the artist (who gets to pay their bills so they can buy more material and make more art.)
But there are times and places for that, and that is AFTER you've already created the work. And you're ready to let it go out into the world.
BEFORE that....well, that can be a dicey time.
It's a fragile time, a time to PROTECT yourself, and your art. A new idea or new body of work needs time to "harden off", a term any gardener in the northern U.S. understands.
Hardening off means letting young seedlings and plants, fresh from seed pots or growing trays, get acclimated to the harsh realities of a cold New England night. Otherwise, a tender plant, fresh from the comforts of your growing light, stuck suddenly outside on a brisk spring night, can be killed by the shock. It needs to be gradually exposed to longer and longer periods of the "real temperatures" outside. Soon it adapts, however, and grows tough enough to survive on its own.
The same with your children, if you have children. Children need to be protected from those who would harm them, until they are mature enough to keep themselves safe. It's a gradual process, and the exact time is a loving (and sometimes frustrating) dance between parent and child.
It's the same with your art.
Here's an example that came up during my talk with Deborah Kruger a few weeks ago. You can read more about this wonderful artist advisor in my blog LISTENING TO YOUR HEART from October 2, or google her name for other blog entries I've written about her.
I told her about this wonderful, powerful idea for a new series I had. Problem is, when I told people about it, they always got hung up on a certain part of the story. It's like they tried to jump to the end of the story--and ended up missing the entire point. I'd try to turn it around, and both me and my listener would end up flustered and awkward. I was now losing interest in the series, because it seemed to hard to turn that around.
"I think you should quit talking about your art so much", she suggested. "At least right now, while the idea is still so fragile and personal. Talk AFTER you make the work. Or not at all. You don't always have to explain everything about your art."
Ah.
She's absolutely right. The time to get talking about the story behind this series is when I've DONE the series. When the flow, and the inspiration, and the work has been completed. When it's time to put it out into the world. And someone, who is drawn to the piece, is ready to hear the story--because they already sense the power and the mystery.
Not BEFORE.
I realize my BEST talking about my art is when it's DONE. When I'M done, that is. I've accomplished what I set out to do. The idea is in concrete form. Now I can go back and think about why I decided to use THIS composition, why I chose THOSE colors, why I made THESE artifacts. The work will be strong enough to carry all that weight.
But talking about what I INTEND to do is too precarious. It's too open to interpretation, or even, as in this case, MISinterpretation.
Here's an even better example. Another friend told about showing someone else samples of her recent work. The other person immediately went into judgment mode: "This is great! This one I don't like so much.... These would make a great series, just leave these ones out." The feeling of dismay this caused, my friend said, was almost palpable.
"Well, yeah!" I said, when she paused. "It's like bringing out your brand new baby and someone says, 'He's a bit fat, isn't he? But he has nice eyes!'" We both burst out laughing, but there it was.
Your art IS your baby. No matter how much "in the world" it WILL be, someday (or not), there is a period where its entrance is so private, so personal, it is not to be shared with just anyone, or everyone.
It needs to be alone with you, to be enjoyed, to be be rejoiced over. It needs its own time to become its own thing. BEFORE you send it out into the world to be judged.
I remember back when I first got into all this art stuff. I worked around the clock making these wall hangings. They were so different than anything I'd ever seen before, I had no idea if they were GOOD or not.
But I knew, by the time I was done, that there was indeed nothing else like them. And they were something that had sprung totally from my heart.
First I took them to an "artist support group." I should have known when I walked in and 30-odd people were there, that I was in for trouble. That's too many people for "support".
Sure enough, when I showed my new pieces, and talked about the story I was working from, no one said anything. Then one woman said, "I think you should loose the buttons. They're too cute." I started to say something, but decided not to. The work was already done, and I'd already explained the storyline behind the buttons. She hadn't heard. Sure enough, another woman said, "I think the buttons are fine! Didn't you hear what she said about them?!"
I realized I didn't even care. I wasn't asking their OPINION about the work. I had hoped they'd like it, of course. but I was already past the point of someone's bad opinion having the power to stop me.
I took the wall hangings to an area art organization to be left for jurying into their store. A week later, I got a phone call from the manager, asking me to pick them up. They had been roundly rejected by "the committee" (which, I found out later, consisted of one person--her.)
She took her own sweet time telling me everything--EVERYTHING--that was wrong with them. The phrase that stuck with me (even after all these years) was, "Your design aesthetic is immature." She was so sorry to have to tell me this, but there was absolutely no hope for this direction in my work.
The funny thing was, I already knew she was wrong.
If I had put my work in front of her even six months before, her critique would have devastated me. I would have slunk home with artwork in hand, boarded myself up in my studio, and never shown the world another thing. (For at least another month or two, anyway. My ego isn't THAT small.)
But I had already thought, pondered, experimented, thought some more, sewed, sewed, sewed, finished, and made a dozen more. I had already looked at them and judged them pretty cool. Not perfect, by a long shot. But I KNEW I had something.
After a period of time passed, I sensed it was time to send them out into the world, and see what would happen.
But I knew no matter what, I would not turn back. Or give up.
And so her awful words did not phase me a whit.
A few months later, a friend was walking with an artist friend, an accomplished and well-known painter, taking in the displays of our city's annual Art Walk. He saw my artwork hanging in a display in a shop, and came to a stop. "WOW!" he exclaimed. "This is different! And exciting!" My friend said with a straight face, "You don't find the design aesthetic immature?" He was stunned. "What kinda crock is THAT?!" he exclaimed. "This is good stuff! And I've never seen anything like it!"
I was vindicated. And received more, years later, from the same critic who had "forgotten" how little potential she had seen in my work before.
It's not that my art was perfect. It wasn't. I still have plenty to learn, and far to go before I feel like it is--if ever. But that isn't the point of making art.
You make it because it's in your heart. Because you HAVE to. Because you do not feel like a whole person when you AREN'T making it.
And something that personal, that powerful, needs protection until it is strong enough to stand on its own in the big, big world out there.
Strong enough to withstand those who do not like it, nor understand it, nor even want to.
And strong enough to bide its time til it finds the audience who does.
