The Muses Are A Bit Shorter Than I Expected, Among Other Things

PART I: "The Muses Are a Bit Shorter Than I Expected: Reflection on Famous Artists and the Act of Creation"

I had a pretty eventful week. The drawing marathon reached its halfway point, and after sneezing out the charcoal dust and pausing for some fresh air, an equally eventful weekend occurred. It began with a Pearlstein opening at NYSS curated by Robert Storr where I met Philip Pearlstein (and helped his wife down some steps). He was jovial and welcoming; he told me about his time spent drawing nearby the school during the 50's, across 8th street. A different time. A different world. I half expected myself to be star struck.

Maybe it's some jaded impression of people that I've unknowingly developed, or perhaps it's the few famous artists I've met while studying in New York that have clobbered my innocence, but the more I live, the more I realize that the gods of painting are mortal; Human beings make art. We are the only ones who can do it. We create, we name things art, and that ability is something truly great. Yet at the end of the day, there is no disenchantment. That is what truly packs the punch. The work. It is what makes human beings larger than life. The connection to the work, the act of making, the touching-upon of something transcendent, whatever you call it. That deeper connection to something a little bit more human than all the other human things. Art.

With this realization, I've been thrilled to meet a couple of the more well known originators of some of this amazing stuff. In my adventures I've met and talked to William Kentridge, George Condo, Alex Katz, Wolf Kahn, Philip Pearlstein (as mentioned above), among others. I try to ask them questions when I get the chance, and they answer. Yet my idea of an answer had been as if maybe the magic art dust would fly off their venerable hands to light on my perceptions. "If only I could have met Philip Guston" I would have said, six months ago. (I actually met the closest thing: his daughter) I still would like to have met him-but if this experience of meeting people has taught me anything, it's that the best way to learn about painting is by looking at the work. Even if Guston were still alive I would learn more from the paintings I can access right now. As Balthus said, when asked for a statement, "The best way to begin, is to say: 'Balthus is a painter of whom nothing is known.' And now let us have a look at the paintings." It's that sort of thing that is so obvious that sometimes it's a little hard to realize: it's all about the work. "By their fruits you shall know them." Not to say that an artist's work has nothing to do with the artist: I believe firmly that something of one's individual human nature is contained intimately in the creative process. Yet at the same time it is something completely other, completely separate than the artist. As Judy Glantzman said in drawing, and I paraphrase, "making a drawing is like having a kid." And I've heard this is true. Before you know it, they grow up into their own thing. You do what you can to help it along, and at a certain point you realize it's something truly apart from you, almost its own entity. I think Jackson Pollock said that he was just "helping his painting realize itself," (probably in other words) which at a first glance sounds sort of helpless and cheesy but after an inch of thought it is unavoidably true. Do we really control what we make? In a certain sense, we do. The art cannot exist without an artist. But where is the creating coming in? I know that I didn't create any of the materials I am using. I didn't grind the pigment, I didn't burn the wood for the charcoal-I didn't press the wood pulp and create paper. All I'm really doing objectively is fiddling with and rearranging some items around on a two-dimensional surface. What is "creating" anyways?

And let me break out the words (courtesy of the online etymology dictionary):

CREATE - late 14c., from Latin creatus, past participle of creare "to make, bring forth, produce, beget,"

So my simple conclusion is this: artists create worlds that touch something fundamental about the human condition by moving substances about on a surface. The creative, "begetting," and according to Vasari, the "god-like" and uniquely human force of the artist lies within the ability to create. A human being can affect matter and thus a world is created. The creation of something new, an existence that would not have existed had not those two particular hands (or other effective appendage) come together with bits of matter to shape it. Artists don't create the materials. Artists create existences. Artists create worlds. This is possible by the most ridiculous paradox ever. Creation is possible through things that one did not create. Amazing

Sometimes it takes a near act of faith to believe that it is possible for one to actually do this, to create a new reality, but it's something that is realized fully by the very act of doing it. Matisse was asked once if he believed in God. He answered "I do when I'm working." How appropriate.

In all, I'd like to put my experience of meeting famous artists into perspective. These are people that have been especially good at that act of "creation through non-created things". They deserve their places in the continuum of humanity as perhaps being "especially human." But that's what they are. People. People who have exercised the uniquely human ability to be an artist, and enjoy telling me (that one time) about their new house in rural Vermont with 16 varieties of apple trees and a beautiful sunset.

PART II: "El Greco"

My friend Will (also a painter) visited from Massachusetts this weekend, and almost three days of museum visits and art conversations over craft beer and New York City food ensued. We saw the Isa Genzken retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art (I may write a post on that later). More importantly, we went to the Met to hunt out a particularly special painting by El Greco: "The Vision of St. John," in front of which we spent quite a while, and talked about for a long time. I won't get into the inspired and at some times uncontrollably excited conversation we had, but what I will say is that this is now one of my favorite paintings, and re-kindles my belief in all those beloved art-related things that I will hold onto forever. This picture of the painting does things that words cannot. The painting itself, in person, is a world that does things that can actually change your life. Go see it at the Met.

El Greco, "The Vision of St. John" 1608-1614

PART III: "The Modern"

I think it's a good idea to call the Museum of Modern Art "The Modern" for short, instead of "MoMA." I've heard older folks who haven't been affected by internet slang call it "The Modern" and it's exciting to hear. Maybe it's just that it's elegant, and serious, and on the imaginary scale of "Squishy Toy" to "Buckingham Palace", moves the abbreviation of a fantastic museum a few solid steps toward the latter. Anybody with me? 

Anyhow, apologies for not posting my own work. I think this is the first post I've ever made that has not included images of my own stuff. My camera is hiding somewhere in Brooklyn, and when I get it back I'll be able to post some of the more recent things. Apologies for typos. I will proofread this later. Cheers.