Monday, October 19, 2009
The Fine Art of Neglect
I spend a lot of time painting. I spend a lot of time playing with my kids. I spend a lot of time cooking breakfast/lunch/dinner. But what I MOSTLY spend my time doing is neglecting things I should be doing. Sometimes I neglect my students, letting them put down layer upon layer of ugly paint without a word of caution passing my lips. Sometimes I neglect my kids, letting them watch one too many Scooby Doo episodes before finally rounding them up and dumping them in the tub only to neglect them for a few minutes more. I often neglect painting, letting gawky, unfinished work sit on the easel like somebody's Grandpa in his dingy tightie-whities when the doorbell rings. I definitely neglect housework. Who wouldn't? But, in all this neglect, something IS getting accomplished: one lovely daydream after another.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Putting it ALL Together
...is what I find myself doing as I prepare my tenure file (due on September 21!). I decided to update the hoary teaching statement I've been carting around lo these many years, and have begun another, which I thought I'd publish here. All you students out there who know me well can tell me what I'm leaving out, or whether I've told lies...
I’ve taught, and the first thing I did when I taught art, was not to teach art.
Louise Nevelson
I’ve only begun to learn what not to teach. I can teach a few of the eight hundred ways to hold a paintbrush, but I can’t teach a student to let her hand dance with the brush like Monet did, never approaching the canvas the same way twice. I can teach a student when to use poppy oil, and in what quantities, to make pigment approximate flesh, but I can’t teach him to how to paint a portrait as breath-takingly present as those of Rembrandt. And so what I “teach” my students really amounts to this: to say “yes” with curiosity and vigor to all questions; to think originally and paint with integrity; to find, as they internalize the techniques and concepts associated with the craft of painting, their own way to art.
Saying “yes” should be easy, but it’s stunningly difficult for most students. To be smart is to be a critic, they think, and they scorn enthusiasm as a sign of naiveté. So enthusiasm (creating it, modeling it, sustaining it) guides my preparation for any course. Hard work that pays dividends can breed enthusiasm, as can surprise, and I find that these two strategies are the ones I use most often. Especially at the introductory level, I engage the former strategy by creating technically challenging assignments that build in complexity over the course of the semester, encouraging accomplishment through process. I know I’ve succeeded when I hear a student remark, on critique day, “I didn’t think I could do it,” to which I always reply: “I knew that you could.” Part of the responsibility for creating a challenging environment lies in maintaining defiant, perhaps quixotic, belief in potential. Whether that belief is justified or rewarded is somewhat beside the point. The latter strategy – surprise – requires that I design each class session in such a way that students can rarely take it for granted. So whether we’re taking an impromptu trip to the museum or drawing blindfolded to trip-hop, there should be a sense that we are all making discoveries together – that we are all (myself included) absolute beginners.
Chuck Close, an artist famous for his enormous portraits of fellow artists, once had occasion to tell Willem de Kooning that he’d painted more de Koonings than de Kooning. This is a useful anecdote for advanced undergraduate and graduate students who struggle (as they put it) to “find their style." It takes a mountain of self-knowledge (not to mention experience) to think originally, to feel comfortable in one’s own shoes. The work that students produce at this level is largely self-directed, and much of what I do amounts to giving permission, while also making frequent reference to historical and contemporary artists and painting practices that will feed students' process. Frequent group and individual critiques give students the opportunity to reflect on their work and establish a way of talking about it that enriches their own, and their viewers’, understanding.
Finally, I encourage all my students to separate the processes of thinking (which typically means overthinking) and painting. “Thinking” in painting should be thinking through paint: that is to say, the process itself should be a particular kind of knowledge that is distinct from the processes of reflection, criticism, and contextualization (though these are quite necessary after the fact). Above all, I hope to teach my students that there is tremendous joy and deep satisfaction to be found in striving after art; the words I hear myself utter most often are: just begin.
I’ve taught, and the first thing I did when I taught art, was not to teach art.
Louise Nevelson
I’ve only begun to learn what not to teach. I can teach a few of the eight hundred ways to hold a paintbrush, but I can’t teach a student to let her hand dance with the brush like Monet did, never approaching the canvas the same way twice. I can teach a student when to use poppy oil, and in what quantities, to make pigment approximate flesh, but I can’t teach him to how to paint a portrait as breath-takingly present as those of Rembrandt. And so what I “teach” my students really amounts to this: to say “yes” with curiosity and vigor to all questions; to think originally and paint with integrity; to find, as they internalize the techniques and concepts associated with the craft of painting, their own way to art.
Saying “yes” should be easy, but it’s stunningly difficult for most students. To be smart is to be a critic, they think, and they scorn enthusiasm as a sign of naiveté. So enthusiasm (creating it, modeling it, sustaining it) guides my preparation for any course. Hard work that pays dividends can breed enthusiasm, as can surprise, and I find that these two strategies are the ones I use most often. Especially at the introductory level, I engage the former strategy by creating technically challenging assignments that build in complexity over the course of the semester, encouraging accomplishment through process. I know I’ve succeeded when I hear a student remark, on critique day, “I didn’t think I could do it,” to which I always reply: “I knew that you could.” Part of the responsibility for creating a challenging environment lies in maintaining defiant, perhaps quixotic, belief in potential. Whether that belief is justified or rewarded is somewhat beside the point. The latter strategy – surprise – requires that I design each class session in such a way that students can rarely take it for granted. So whether we’re taking an impromptu trip to the museum or drawing blindfolded to trip-hop, there should be a sense that we are all making discoveries together – that we are all (myself included) absolute beginners.
Chuck Close, an artist famous for his enormous portraits of fellow artists, once had occasion to tell Willem de Kooning that he’d painted more de Koonings than de Kooning. This is a useful anecdote for advanced undergraduate and graduate students who struggle (as they put it) to “find their style." It takes a mountain of self-knowledge (not to mention experience) to think originally, to feel comfortable in one’s own shoes. The work that students produce at this level is largely self-directed, and much of what I do amounts to giving permission, while also making frequent reference to historical and contemporary artists and painting practices that will feed students' process. Frequent group and individual critiques give students the opportunity to reflect on their work and establish a way of talking about it that enriches their own, and their viewers’, understanding.
Finally, I encourage all my students to separate the processes of thinking (which typically means overthinking) and painting. “Thinking” in painting should be thinking through paint: that is to say, the process itself should be a particular kind of knowledge that is distinct from the processes of reflection, criticism, and contextualization (though these are quite necessary after the fact). Above all, I hope to teach my students that there is tremendous joy and deep satisfaction to be found in striving after art; the words I hear myself utter most often are: just begin.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Night-night, Sleep Tight
What is the food that creativity thrives on? I guess it's different for everyone. I used to be an "early to bed, early to rise" kind of girl, grooving on the early start and painting on a 9 - 5. And I took a certain pleasure in reading about all the artists who did the same: Jennifer Bartlett, Elizabeth Murray...up at the crack of dawn to put in a good day's work. And they have kids, just like me. Now here I am, two beers and a few hours past everyone else's bedtime, still glowing with some kind of 120 watt bulb that manages to illuminate the creative process for me, if only until I fall from fatigue. What is it about a box of paints, a piece of paper, and some good music I've never heard before? I can't help but feel like this is the elixir, the fountain of youth...it's like love, or jumping off the roof of your garage for the very first time...
Monday, August 3, 2009
Closing the Windows, Closing the Doors
"A painting is like the facade of a house...and you're like a janitor who goes around systematically trying to close all the windows and doors -- but when you get to the top floor to close the last window, a wind blows open the one on the first landing.
You rush down and close that one, and then one on the middle floor blows open and you rush to close that.
But when you've closed all the entries to the house, then the painting is closed -- not that it's finished, it's just that you can't enter it any longer." (Graham Nickson)
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Play is Serious (part one): Chad
One of the big revelations that has been provided to me by parenthood is simply this: play is serious business. And it bears a fair resemblance to the artistic process, which might lead you to conclude (depending on how you feel about children and/or artists) that a) all children are artists, or b) all artists are children. Maybe both are true. When I paint, I feel the same transcendent, focused joy that led me to spend hours creating apartments for mice out of snow drifts, or piling up rocks in a stream to make waterfalls. The goals and objects of play, while real, are always ephemeral. So is art. And the best things happen when you realize that you chose only one of infinite options, that your solution is only a place holder for the next creative act. Which brings me to Chad. Chad stands about 2 inches high, wears a casual (if slightly emo) outfit, and his hands are locked in a steering wheel grip so that he can drive his yellow-orange adventure vehicle.
Despite his diminutive size and lack of physical mobility, Chad has led an astonishingly adventuresome life since coming to live with David about 2 years back. Among other things, he has survived being swallowed whole by an enormous Komodo dragon, worked for a time driving a John Deere tractor, and dallied in Cinderella's coach.
He has flown through the air repeatedly without the aid of even a parachute; has suffered attack by dinosaurs on many occasions; has been buried alive in the wilderness of the backyard. And through it all his face has worn the same blank look that suggests a kind of calm readiness.
Right now, he's thoroughly wrapped in pink yarn. That right: Chad has been mummified. Will he survive? Will he walk the earth in search of victims? Will he lay an eternal curse upon all our heads? Only David knows for sure, and he's not telling. To my eye, he's the perfect little art object. A thousand or so more, and I'd have a great installation...all I need now is a title.
Despite his diminutive size and lack of physical mobility, Chad has led an astonishingly adventuresome life since coming to live with David about 2 years back. Among other things, he has survived being swallowed whole by an enormous Komodo dragon, worked for a time driving a John Deere tractor, and dallied in Cinderella's coach. 
He has flown through the air repeatedly without the aid of even a parachute; has suffered attack by dinosaurs on many occasions; has been buried alive in the wilderness of the backyard. And through it all his face has worn the same blank look that suggests a kind of calm readiness. 
Right now, he's thoroughly wrapped in pink yarn. That right: Chad has been mummified. Will he survive? Will he walk the earth in search of victims? Will he lay an eternal curse upon all our heads? Only David knows for sure, and he's not telling. To my eye, he's the perfect little art object. A thousand or so more, and I'd have a great installation...all I need now is a title.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Long Time Gone
Going away from a painting feels a bit like leaving your cat at home for a couple days with a heaping bowl of food and plenty of water. You know the cat will be okay, but you also feel the guilt of the neglectful caretaker. While you're away, you won't be loving it enough. There will be no one to rub it behind the ears! A painting can't purr, but it does suffer from being unconsidered. Paintings, after all, thrive on attention. But I'm back now, and trying to make up for lost time.
Like any neglected relationship, my affair with my painting needed a little spark, which came in the form of a new brush that defies adequate description. Try as I might, I can't articulate a metaphor potent enough to contain all the wonders of the Daniel Smith Faux Mongoose #14 Flat, which I will hereafter refer to only as "the Goose". (Okay, I know I just lost about 75% of my readership, and for that I apologize. I only hope you'll visit this site again; I promise I'll try not to bore you to tears.) The Goose was a big surprise to me, as I usually don't use synthetic brushes. I'm a purist. Sable, bristle, even fitch. But I found myself, one day, cruising the DS website in search of something new. What the heck, I thought, I'll give it a try.
Well. Like I said, the Goose defies description except to say that it is one luscious brush. It's got bounce. Loaded up with color, it goes for miles and miles. I can build up thick strokes; I can layer wet on wet; I can scrub, dab, and glaze. And it all feels effortless, like I'm painting with Devonshire cream.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
It's Not You, It's Me
Dear Painting,I don't know how to begin, so I'll just say that I think it's time for us to spend some time apart. I've been planning a trip for awhile, and now seems like a good time to reevaluate and get some perspective on our relationship. This isn't about you: you've been great. This is about me. I'll see you when I get back from Maine.
Love,
Nancy
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