Making art, and writing
with heart and soul, and sharing it
Art has been the cornerstone of my life.
I’ve always been excited and inspired and moved by contemporary art and artists. Also art and artists of the past, from all cultures and eras. I’ve been to museums and galleries all over the world, studied art history and the lives of artists, read and collected (too many) art books. Many of my dearest friends are artists, and I’m lucky to have their art on my walls.
This isn’t a brag-tell. It isn’t a “look at me.” Truth is, very few people look at me, as they are all busy doing their own lives, as they should be. I’m busy doing my own life, too. I look at the others as much as possible, as there is so much to learn and absorb from them.
In high school I was one of those artsy kids who hung out in the art room and won art awards. I went to a prestigious art school and graduated with honors. I actually went to graduate school when I was in my fifties, and got my MFA in studio art at age 57. I’ve been in countless shows, had many solo shows and won awards and prizes. I’ve made loads of art and sold a bunch of it, mostly paintings, over the past several decades. I’m extremely grateful for the opportunities and accolades I’ve received in this sometimes frustrating and confusing choice of professions.
So why, at this point in my life, am I suddenly feeling all “meh” about art?
Truth -- I’m not really “meh” about it. I’m just not revved up and fascinated and awed by the overwhelming contemporary art scene anymore. I’m no longer interested in pursuing the gallery game. I still revere and admire the passion, drive and innovation of the multitudes of artists who follow their gut to create and put their work out there to be seen and experienced by viewers. I was one of them, for years, striving to make meaningful work and vying for that adoring (or critical) public, who can buoy us up (or pull us down.)
Writing, paralleling art, has always been there, too. Writing has been central to my creative output, using words to dig down into the whys and what-ifs and therefores and ahas that bubble up in the process of making art, and figuring out one’s journey.
I didn’t plan to do a radical shift, a 180° pivot on my creative life. It happened organically. A couple of years ago, when I turned 70, I made the decision to move out of my 1200 square-foot studio where I’d worked for the previous 13 years. It took six months to accomplish that, including moving tools and equipment and dozens of paintings and sculptures into storage, and setting up a smaller space at home in which to continue making art.
Somehow, as soon as I set up my art space, (which in all fairness is spacious, light-filled, and quiet, with a beautiful view of river, trees, and urban skyline—yes, I know how lucky I am1) I looked around at my set-up— paints, brushes, movable wall, painting panels, tools, sketchbooks, etc.— and I sat down at my big work table and started to write.
Writing took over.
When you’re known as something— say, an artist —and you morph into something else— say, a writer— there is some confusion. But the truth is, they coexist, as so many of us know. Art-making and writing go hand in hand. They always have for me, and I know multitudes of other artist-writers who suffer benefit from the same affliction blessing. In fact, years ago I kept a blog on Wordpress-- Cleaning Up the Studio, where I wrote about art and life, and reviewed other artists and art books that inspired me.
So the writing has always been there.
(👉🏼FYI— if you haven’t already read The Creative Act: A Way of Being by Rick Rubin, then go get it.)
The combined writing/art drive revolves around the urge to share, tell, disseminate, express, show, inspire, celebrate, mourn, rejoice, rant. It’s all there— words vs. paint (or clay, wood, metal, or whatever), thoughts and ideas vs. images and color (or form, or light, or whatever).
When I get drawn into the words and artwork made by others, there are sparks and little illuminations that occur, like sparklers ignited and waved around for a few minutes, emitting an almost frightening brilliance until they gradually sputter out , and I’m left with the after-effects and memory of the magic.
Is this what inspiration is ? An attempt to swallow the magic of the sparkler before it fades out ?
Whatever form we choose to express ourselves in, doing it with heart and soul, and then sharing it, is what matters. Maybe it will spark someone else, and they will light someone else’s sparkler, and….
I’m not a published writer, don’t have my MFA in writing, have not been lauded for my stellar passable prose (yet), but I’ll start submitting some essays to some of the gazillion places out there that might publish unheard-of-newbies like myself. And I may actually publish a book someday. 2
Meanwhile, back at the ranch in my studio/writing room, I’m still floating along on my 100 day journey through Suleika Joaoud’s Book of Alchemy: A Creative Practice for an Inspired Life. I’m about 3/4 of the way through it. I plan to be finished by the Fall Equinox, my favorite day of the year. You can find out about that project here and read an essay from it here.
Also— I’m still an artist, just not playing with paint and whatnot at the moment. Someday I’ll return there; gotta get the words out first.
Am I lucky? I think so. See this post 🍀 along with pics to prove it.
That remains to be seen. But writing it is what takes up my days, for now.
Clicking on the 💜means the world to me, sharing or restacking this post is even better, and leaving me a comment would make my day! Stay tuned for more occasional wonderment…
What beautiful art and words! Loved reading this. Thank you for this sparkler of inspiration.
So inspiring, Karen! Can’t wait to hear more!