22 February 2006

Happiness is a choice

It's not so much a state of mind as it is a series of decisions.

When you know what makes you happy, you can choose to expose yourself to that which makes you happy. If you reverse it it works the same way. (i.e. -- what makes you unhappy can be avoided.)

Happiness is not something that happens to you, it is something you create within yourself, usually in spite of the world rather than because of it.

It's never easy, but we all have it within ourselves to choose happiness. If you look deep within your soul, you know what you need to be happy. Then it's up to you to strive to create that world.

I'm still striving...but it's in the process of "creating your happiness" that it's found.

Good luck on your journey to happiness. I hope that you are able to find it, or at the very least, peace.

16 February 2006

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Punk

Both of my parents were artists, who were somewhat frustrated since they had kids so young. My Dad started art school, and wound up in drafting, since he was being pushed to be practical because of the kids. He still makes stuff -- mostly he's a carpenter, he carves the most incredible guns, of all things, carves mantlepieces, but only for hire. Never, it seems, for himself.

My Mom, on the other hand, had incredible promise. I have some of her drawings from the '50's when she was 16, they are remarkably unique, with a strong style of her own. When people look at what she did in the '60's & '70's, they see this very paisley-like, detailed style that became popular during that time, but she was doing it long before it was in the mainstream, just naturally.

When I was a kid, my Mother painted every day at the kitchen table, and packed it up when I came home from school. She had a solo show at a prominent art center when I was about 7, had a good gallery, and was starting to sell. Unfortunately, when my parents divorced, she couldn't handle being a single working Mother and an artist, so she gave it up completely. I've tried to encourage her, but she doesn't want to do anything but what she did before, and her hand shakes too much to do it. Plus she's lost confidence (and in my snotty teenaged years I'm afraid I may have contributed to that, a crime I've tried endlessly to make up for).

I was always an artist. I'm surprised I didn't come out of the womb clutching a pencil. I drew constantly, stole my Mom's paints, made things all the time. My teachers began telling my parents I had talent in pre-school, but they already knew. I got art supplies for every birthday, and was in my first art show with my Mom at 5.

You'd think that's the heavenly upbringing for an artist, that would result in no issues, but not really so. I was as interested in music as art, but since my brothers had both earlier abandoned their expensive instruments, my parents wouldn't let me play anything. So of course, the drive to be a musician overcame the drive to be an artist out of sheer rebellion. I bought my first guitar with my own money in 9th grade, and played in punk rock bands after high school. My parents had pressured me so much to be an artist (to make up for what they had sacrificed, I now realize) that it was the last thing I wanted to do.

But all through those days, I still made art, drew comics, wrote 'zines...I found my outlet mostly in painting t-shirts and friends' leather jackets. I couldn't stop making art if I tried, and eventually it won out, as I practiced less and painted more.

Both of my parents encouraged me to have a practical skill, though, which I wrongly poo-pooed. My Mother constantly told me how hard it was to make a living as an artist, and like most kids, I ignored her.

The funny thing about pressure from parents, whether it's encouraging or discouraging, is that it always seems to backfire, at least for awhile. I think my parents recognized that I was an artist and tried to nurture that, but there was always an awareness for me of what they had given up, which instilled a huge dose of fear about following the same path. I always feel like if I give up, I'll be destroying their legacy, since I haven't ever bothered with the whole having kids thing.

Today my Mom is my biggest fan, and her apartment is full of my artwork. She comes to all my openings, my friends all know her, and she gives a damned fine critique, too. My Dad doesn't really get my stuff and wishes I'd go back to drawing horses, and doesn't go to many of my shows (I think he's afraid to thanks to some of my younger, more radical work), but is always encouraging and willing to help me build things when my carpentry skills aren't up to snuff. I don't think either of them realize what an impact they had on me by giving up what they really wanted to do.

11 February 2006

Painting is Dead

Or at least, this is the claim made every few years by art critics and historians who've run out of things to say.

In the "old days", (to use a quaint term), there was generally one accepted style or genre of art being done, which is what we know about today -- we really have no way of knowing what else was done, because history is "written by the winners", as they say. For years, art historians (wrongly) assumed that women were never artists, because they were so rarely given the opportunity and much of their work was attributed to men. It didn't mean women artists didn't exist, it just means they weren't cared about enough to be catalogued & archived.

I was very fortunate to once have the opportunity to visit a small room underneath the Medici Chapel that had only recently been discovered. It was not open to the public, only scholars, but since I was studying in Italy I was allowed to visit with my professor. The theory was that this room was where Michaelangelo hid from the Pope, and the walls were covered with the most magnificent drawings, which definitely looked to be done by Michaelangelo's hand. But there were other drawings on the walls, too, that seemed so modern & wild that they could have been done by Picasso, yet with the same marks, the same weight to the line as the other drawings. Upon testing the pigments, it had been found that they were the same age, and had been put down at around the same time. Art historians are still arguing about whether this work was done by Michaelangelo or some random workman, but there is no argument to the fact that the two styles existed, side-by-side, at the same time.

One of the hallmarks of postmodernism is the acceptance of a plurality of styles, which is what I think makes the times we live in so exciting. That's why I never understand the people who say "xyz is the one true art form" or some such hogwash -- there is no "one true art form" now, and in reality there probably never was.

That's the problem with people making essentialist statements -- it's impossible to declare them true.