Scene One: Me in Memphis minding my own business.
Buddies: “Hey Jamie, what are you up to these days?”
Me: “I’m an artist!
Buddies: “No. Really. What are you doing?”
The gradual process of becoming something you’re not is one of life’s odysseys. How do I know when I get there. Is this a costume I’m wearing or what. Let’s say that one measure of awareness is when your buddies start asking about how much you charge. Every artist has his/her legend of survival in the trenches. Very few have avoided it, very few.
What effected me most in my development as an artist I have to answer in two ways. Museums, or, said another way, going to the mountain. And, secondly, and maybe more importantly, watching fine work take place in person by an experienced hand… emotional and visceral of course! This was, and still is, magic!
The bottom line in the growth of any artist is determining what is good and that takes time. One of the highlights of my career was an hour and a half demonstration by Richard Schmid all the way up in Vermont (I took three days off and it was well worth it) where he painted a sea captain. This was greatness and I wished I had known about him earlier.
The first time I saw anything that could pass for art was the simple pencil drawing of a cowboy (my future ambition) by my mother when I was about five or six, she could do anything! I imagine that this iconic scene has played itself out in many, many millions of families throughout the centuries worldwide…just maybe not with cowboys. Add another first time, when I was in about late teens visiting Jackson Square in New Orleans. Artists were set up with their easels and turning out some fine pastel portraits for fifteen dollars…you mean you can get paid for this?
But my real treat was much later. And probably the one that connected me with the art world and made it personal…a water color demonstration by the great Fred Rawlinson! His loaded brush seemed to wake up the paper surface and the painting came to life…there was an audible gasp and I thought, this is for me. Well, a lot has happened between that milestone and now and my choice of oil on canvas as a building block hasn’t dampened that immortal moment. Thank you Fred, I’m forever in your debt! More on him later.
Now, back to museums. There is no substitute for spending time with the masterpieces. Each piece is its own story, not better or worse than its neighbor. The only problem I see is the time-consuming process of digesting greatness, a word that is thrown around too much. To me, the real test is the “pull”, i.e., that mysterious lure that causes one to have one more look. Inexplicable. I’m not ashamed to admit that there are two such paintings at The Met, for me: The Horse Fair by Rosa Bonheur and Salome by Henri Regnault. It’s impossible to put into words.
Energy, power, movement! If you just consider the design elements, in this case horses, this painting would have still drawn your attention but with its scale of approximately 8 feet by 17 feet, you can feel the draft of wind and dust and smell. Bonheur spent time up close and personal among scenes like this one with her sketchbook (and in men’s clothes so not to attract attention).
Not a household name in the legion of French painters Regnault outdid himself in this candid portrayal of the diva Salome who seemed to possess all the self confidence in the world while awaiting the head of John the Baptist.
There are other pictures at other museums that are begging for attention and my favorite list may change with the seasons. For example, Abbot Thayer’s painting of daughter “Gladys” in the Memphis Brooks Museum is one. There are thousands of pictures and sculptures that turn my head around.
A point I would like to make in our discussion about art and those blessed to love it in this fragile world is how lucky we are. Artists from other countries have related to me stories of how art was suppressed or misused, particularly with regard to portraiture. One told about the president of the nation wouldn’t let her paint her (they were close friends) for fear of what may happen in the case of a coup or uprising. Another recounted the story of an art teacher at a school after the fall of the country’s dictator. All western art was forbidden, the teacher had a secret stash of books on Monet, Gauguin and the like hidden away in his basement wall. It’s like when I was called for jury duty, the judge emphasized the three aspects of justice: the law, the facts and common sense. I wanted to raise my hand and say, “and the freedom to exercise such!” Clearly I didn’t, I’m not stupid!
Let me close with a topic that relates to who we think we are. It may be the most important possession we have. When it’s bad it can be career ending. It may be the proverbial wall that we sometimes hit. It may be St. George’s dragon when we can’t kill the s.o.b. In fact, it is the greatest threat we face (my words). It effects super star athletes, any creative person, intellectuals. In other words, everybody. It’s self-confidence, a very precious commodity!
How do we get it. How do we keep it. Let’s face it, knowing how to do something is just part of the answer. The key is to call on that fresh enthusiasm you had as a child and block out all the nonsense. The real so called talent that an artist possesses is not only knowing how to draw the face, or to make a likeness. In my opinion, it’s the desire, the want-to. The spark. And to feel good about it.
We all know a few folks who have too much self-confidence, so be it. We don’t all have Winston Churchill’s “audacity” but hang in there. Hold on to that indispensable companion, hope.
If I knew the answer to this one I would be the richest man in the universe. Just keep going. Know that there’s not a human being who hasn’t faced it. At least I can pick up a brush without the risk of being punished. If people identify you as an artist, you are already in a special club that literally millions out there covet! When you say, “I’m an artist”, try to see yourself through the eyes of others, and wear it!
A true story: If you think you’ve got it bad, a while back some old farmers were gathered around at the country store discussing the state of affairs and all this and that and one of them just sat there, hadn’t opened his mouth. They asked, “What about you George, you ain’t said nothin’. He said, “don’t ask me, I can’t farm half as good as I know how to anyway!”