I was flipping through one of my sketch books I haven’t opened in a while looking to nudge this latent passion of mine, to reawaken and stir up what was once something I took great pleasure in, what came second nature, what I went to school for. Before Busy happened. I never would have thought, because I took it for granted, because I could always do it, how hard it is to begin again. To shake that muscle into fluidity. To obey.
The struggle is evident in the quick sketch I did last night, a self-portrait, using my iPhone as a “mirror”. It’s buried most definitely, showing how tight and self-conscious it comes through. I have a lot of work to do.
When an individual asks the artist to explain what their intent or meaning was when creating a particular piece it really is none of that individuals business. That would be robbing the individual of their own interpretation, which ultimately is the only one that matters.
Art should never be publicly explained. I don’t want to read about what the artist was thinking when showing their work or who influenced them. The work is what it is regardless. How would knowing change how you perceived the work? Inevitably my viewing is going to be different anyway, and different again from the person standing next to me looking at the work. What I see and how their work affects me are in the realm of my personal experience.
That is the message of ART, we view art work through our own life experiences and no two experiences are the same and so will deliver a different meaning and interpretation to each viewer.
If the artist’s intent is recognized and understood by the public exactly as the artist intended, fine. Still ultimately Art is SUBJECTIVE.
When I was going through the contents of the storage area in my basement I came upon some of my old sketchbooks; needless to say as soon as I found them I became lost in their pages. There was a time when I was always observing, when I would quietly watch and be moved to capture. I had time to engage in this, and as I went through them it was as though I had forgotten I could ever have done that.
It’s a queer thing to feel so estranged from an element of one’s life that once occupied many years. I had gone to The Banff School of Arts, I had begun a Bachelor of Fine Arts at college until being a single parent and making a living trumped any solitary artistic studies or pursuits. It just felt selfish somehow if I were to try to continue on with it seriously.
I now feel that I might just be at a juncture in my life to pick up where I left off.