FOR YEARS I’VE BEEN DABBLING IN ABSTRACTS. Happily moving paint around the canvas. Scratching into the layers of paint and texture. Writing my thoughts down for the day on a layer that will be veiled by more paint, perhaps covered by a piece of paper. There have been days when I work and I see nothing but a hot mess. Colors that do not go together and a lack of direction with no foreseeable end in sight. I walk away confused and a bit frustrated, yet I almost always walk away happy.
How can one be happy yet frustrated? It’s like having a dynamic conversation with enthusiastic participants. The more passion each side has, the more interesting the dialogue is. Does there have to be a winner or loser in the dialogue? Do you have to come to a conclusion that everyone is happy with? Or is it good enough to simply talk and have your feelings heard by another person?
I say this because painting can be like having a passionate dialogue between yourself, your paint and the canvas. The three of you work together back and forth. There are moments when you get so lost in what you are saying to one another, you hardly can believe two or four or eight hours have passed. You have experienced extreme highs when the flow seemed to pour out of you and then there were moments when you had to walk away from the “argument” before you punched something or someone.
At the end of the day (or the session), a resolution of all the players occurs. You come to an acceptance of one another’s belief systems. Everyone has had a chance to be heard and you are all at peace with what has transpired. You’ve detached yourself from the outcome but had a vested hand in what transpired from the moment you started “talking.” It’s no longer yours, hers, theirs, his. The painting has become its own persona. You gave birth in a sense.
That relationship, the dialogue, the argument, the love, the frustration, the acceptance, the letting go, it’s all in the painting. It’s a happy moment yet it’s a frustrating moment. You can’t always control what you create, just like you can’t control another person, but if you are lucky, the best parts of you have influenced this “being” into becoming a bit better than it could have had you not been in its life. That’s all we can ask for no matter what we do.
When I thought about writing a book on abstracts, I rejected the idea, thinking I have absolutely no right to be an author on abstracts, painting or any other artistic endeavor. I’ve never attended art school (other than a few long-forgotten drawing classes in high school and college). I am not a graduate with a MFA, nor do I know all of the so-called “rules” of painting. The fear of writing about something you are not an expert on is so real, it can be paralyzing. Truthfully, the fear of attempting anything you are not confidant about can be paralyzing. Yet, if we all did only what we have mastered, what would any of us do? I think the better way to look at my right to write about abstracts, or art in general, is that I am sharing my experience with you, and if you stick with me, five years from now I’ll have new experiences to share. If we all keep trying new things, the world will be a much richer place. The bonus points come from birthing creations (our paintings) into the world, objects that would not exist had we not stepped away from our fear and walked through the door of opportunity.
Don’t let the fear of not being ready or not knowing enough stop you from doing what is in your heart or trying something you are drawn to. There’s a reason for it all, and it’s about to unfold. We all have a sweet and humbling connection to one another. We all start at the same place, the beginning. Life, if we let it, will constantly show us what we need to learn.
That is why I should write a book on abstracts, even though I have had no formal training. The result is a book about learning how to unfold, learn, grow, expand, experiment and experience a dialogue with your art.