Friday, February 02, 2007

The Creative Process


This is the second try for this post ... I was almost done with it the first time, went to "preview", then hit the wrong button to back out and lost 20 minutes of thought ... I haaaate it when that happens!

Anyway, here goes. I've had several unrelated conversations lately with other artists about our creative processes. Funny how the same subject crops up repeatedly in a short period of time, isn't it? We were comparing notes about how we create our artworks. And we all do it in very different ways.

This is one of my newest paintings, Pleasantville. I was looking through an old family photo album some months ago and came across a picture of my family taken in 1964. For some reason it resonated with me ... didn't know why then nor now, but it did. A few days later, I had a vision of a painting based on that photo, only everybody would be wearing flak jackets and holding M16's. The painting developed over a period of several months, but the end result is essentially the same vision I had back at the very beginning. (So in case you're wondering: yes, that geeky kid on the left is me).
This is a classic example of how my paintings develop. I usually work on a series of related paintings; for the past two years I've been working on a series of political satire paintings, and for the past year I've also been working on one about war. This series gives my subconscious a framework to play with. Then I dump a lot of stuff into the framework: old photos, advertisements, news reports, conversations, "old master" artworks, you name it. And something magic happens. Somehow, all this stuff gets churned around and percolated or whatever metaphor you want to use, and then suddenly I have an image of a painting. It may take a short period of time or it may take weeks or months, but my subconcious always comes through. It's then up to my conscious mind to develop it into a full-blown painting.
I never really thought much about my subconscious before I became an artist. I would "trust my gut" on occasion, but didn't really put a lot of value on it. It was only later that I began to really appreciate what was going on in that vast black cavern. The art curriculum at UNC Asheville got me started on journaling, which has proven to be one of my most valuable tools. I don't use it as a diary; rather, I use it as a tool to get my conscious mind the hell out of the way, so I can have a direct dialog with that black cavern. When working on a painting, for example, I'll sit in front of it and stare, and let my pen record what's going on in my head. I can't direct my pen, I treat it like a tape recorder or something: just record what's there, don't interpret. This lets my subconscious (my "gut") do the talking. It'll tell me what needs to be fixed, what's working, where my attention needs to go next, and so forth. It's really amazing how well it works.
A friend of mine does some beautiful abstract paintings. Her method is entirely different. She starts a painting with almost random strokes: a little of this here, some of that there, maybe a slash going that way. Then she works with it to bring some things out, push others back, add, eliminate, move, until something tells her it's done. It's very intuitive. I can't work that way. I've tried, and it just isn't me. I'm a much more linear kind of guy and need a fairly specific idea to work with. By the same token, no way in hell could she do the kind of paintings I do.
One thing we both have experienced, though, relates to something Jackson Pollock once said about his process. "When I am in my painting, I'm not aware of what I'm doing. It is only after a sort of 'get acquainted' period that I see what I have been about. I have no fear of making changes, destroying the image, etc., because the painting has a life of its own. I try to let it come through. It is only when I lose contact with the painting that the result is a mess. Otherwise there is pure harmony, an easy give and take, and the painting comes out well." This applies to me, too, even though my work is far removed from his. Paintings are like children: you can only control them for a while, but sooner or later they begin to assert themselves and tell you what it is they want. Sometimes you have an easy give and take with them, sometimes you fight 'em to the bitter end, but you damn well better listen, or you'll wind up with a mess.

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