Technical Skills

I've been sitting in the gallery thinking all weekend and have come up with a few thoughts. As I sit with Isa Genzken's sculptures I seem to have slowly put my finger on something I have been or am missing. Part of what was so frustrating about my masters program was realising how unaware I am of art theory. Most art these days is heavy on theory and light on technical skill. I happen to love painting. I am good with my hands. I have a skill and have tried to hone it. But painting in the art world is on a very different level than being overly concerned with a honed technical skill. (Don't get me wrong, I do think that theory has honed skills too, just different ones).


Iza Genzken at the Whitechapel Gallery 

On the other hand, I am also not interested in a pretty painting for the sake of being a pretty painting. I want substance. I craved it after years of technical classes. Visually I want both a balance of technical and a breaking of all the traditional rules (see artist Justin Mortimer). Theoretically, I want some reason for making the work, whether technical (like experimenting with surface) or experiential (like documenting lives in Liberia), or philosophical (like any artist's current Artist Statement).


Justin Mortimer's painting Family Plot 

I am more and more interested in delving into themes and ideas when creating work. I want to do a series related to the ever present Facebook in relation to identity. Wow, I am sounding remotely art-speak. I think where my failing comes in are from a lack of understanding, interest, and involvement in current art theory and its consequent practice. It depresses me when it seems so far away from what I am aiming to do, which is paint. Theory often seems overly complex and caught in the cycles of thinking that don't free me as an artist. It was summed up in an email I received back from a friend who is both artist and curator, after I had sent him some job openings for curating and involvement at a more theoretical level in different art venues. I added that I didn't have enough knowledge in art to pursue them myself. To which he emailed back "but you would be an excellent painting instructor in the right situation." And suddenly it dawned on me that is precisely what my strength is. I am a painter. I like the challenge of the technical. I could think of quite a number of very successful artists (in the world of art) who built a career based primarily (but importantly, not entirely) on using that particular strength. It is the opposite of growth to feel discouraged, lost, and inadequate when trying to move forward in anything creative. I may be in a slightly different camp than my theoretical peers, but at least I now know exactly what i need to do.

A Revolutionary Road

I quit my one week old job yesterday. If I am utterly miserable than best to change the current situation. This has occured once before and I remember someone telling me not to be a quitter and to stick it out. I was stunned. So stunned I didn't quit for a year and a half. Is this how the majority of the world think, I wondered to myself? Is that why so many people stay in jobs they don't like? I realized on the ship in Liberia that I had never worked for someone full-time for 7 months before. I didn't like the oppression or the dominion wielded over me. I have always worked hard in casual, part-time, or full-time seasonal jobs. I remained my own boss and lived a simple and frugal life. I admit this can become wearing in different ways. I watched the movie Revolutionary Road and it left a bad taste in my mouth, as it was it was meant to. Like the heroine, I have pursued the dream of being an artist believing I would make it one day. What is your definition of success? This question posed in art school was meant to break down the superficial ideas and free us to make our own art. The right answer was wrapped up in increasing your own abilities and creating in realms that had not been discovered, whether by you or others. It was to broach your own safety zone and step out into a chasm ignoring societies pleas to play it safe.

"When the boy was a man he would be known as someone who took large and reckless actions, and he would often think that he had first been like this at Rebus Creek Road where he had first gone beyond what he was brave enough to do and changed himself because of it." (Peter Carey, His Illegal Self). But I have never quite been able to convince myself of this notion of success despite developing my sense of what is accomplished and challenging art. I have humanly wanted to be recognized by my peers, by the commercial world of art and by the theoretical world of art. Fat chance, is todays feeling despite Nigel learning that artist's minds are either floating in a cloud of brilliance or wallowing in a sea of despicable loathing of ones own work. My mind keeps slipping back to a friend of mine, another artist, who was struggling and from an outsiders view (the title I bestowed on myself at the time) I had the answers. I could see that she should market herself differently, should get a part time job to support her art while she was still fledgling, and start giving herself a time and money limit. Of course I placed myself in an entirely different category. I was beginning to sell, I lived simply, I had definite goals and time frames. Such are egos and my disbelief when she told me I didn't support her art. Now I wonder how different I am from her back then. Do people look at me and in their mind know what I should be doing differently, think I should give up, move on, grow up, and finally enter the real world? I admit I am surrounded more by people now whose subtlies I read and I know this is what they are thinking. They don't need to say it or show it. It is more what they don't say. So I am left wondering what next to do and in my mind these are the only realistic alternatives. 1. Jump into my art with all the gusto I have, living, breathing, eating, and sleeping art for a time more before reassessing. 2. Look into something completely different, completely reliable. 3. Pursue something else artistic that would renew my passion, but place me at the bottom rung in another field. 4. Continue with my art alongside a part time job.

Careers

I have been doing a lot of pensive thinking lately. Some thoughts have to do with things I am doing, books I am reading, movies I am seeing, but most have to do with where I am currently in life and where I see myself going. Maybe I am at a crossroads. I keep meaning to blog about all these things, but when it comes to sitting down and writing something, I am not in the mood. Maybe my thoughts are half formed still. There was a brilliant exercise I had to do in a writing/public speaking/art class I took in my undergrad art school. The homework was to write a page a day in a notebook...sort of like a journal. What we were to write were thoughts or opinions or anything as long as they were analytical. My two best ones were on why the world was so moved by Princess Diana's death (yes, this does date my schooling) and why cemeteries are so valued by the living. Perhaps I will try and repeat that exercise in this blog. It forces a further thought process in my half finished thoughts. That said, I have been looking for a part time job lately to pay for my studio and my transit. A day a week would be ideal. But it seems that most jobs here in London are over applied for and not a single company bother to get back to you if you have not been shortlisted. This leaves you wondering if the job has been filled or whether you are still waiting to hear. I had my fingers crossed for the library job. I have been thinking seriously about other careers too. Why? How could I when I have invested in this one so far? Well, this one can get discouraging not only with working long and hard with few monetary rewards, but the world of art is not always a savoury place. Part of the problem is when I do those on-line tests to discover what your best career fit is, it is always in the arts. Maybe I just need more structure. Maybe I need a bit of a change for a while. I did in fact get short-listed for a part time job last week and started this week. Of course what was advertised is entirely different, both in location, in commitment, and in hours. There has been no training, the schedule is sketchy and I am expected to be flexible, make it my life priority, commute for an hour (each way), and earn minimum wage, while being sometimes abused by the public. I dread going, but admit it has had a one positive effect. It has made me determined to do something else. I am refocusing with an extreme intensity on my art work and studio time and am seriously considering other careers, not as a replacement, but as a compliment. I need something that is a bit structured and makes a bit more money.

What is Your Dream Joe-Job?

A friend who works as a trained professional once said he had always liked the idea of delivering pizzas. It was his secret dream joe-job. Not that he would ever give up his well paid professional job, but he thought it looked fun. Ever since I was young and would tag along with my mom on grocery shopping trips I always thought the job of shelf stocker looked really fun. If my mom lingered in the cereal aisle I would start straightening up the haphazard cereal boxes and shifting ones to the front of the shelves that had been pushed to the back. When I worked as an assistant cook for a kids camp cooking for 400 one of my favourite things to do was organize the storeroom and the fridge. It became even more exciting when new stock came in. I would know exactly where everything was and could organize it with with maximum efficiency and minimal space. I realize I also like to face a disaster of a room or space (yours or mine), organize it and tidy it as fast as possible. I like to put the groceries away when I come back from shopping (and make that the excuse for reorganizing the cupboards). I like to pack for a trip. I like to unpack after a trip. I sometimes mock-pack a few weeks before a trip just for a thrill. I like to make lists to pack for a trip. This all seems connected somehow.

Story Swapping

I live in Sheffield and one of the hardest things for me in this city is that I have very few friends. I work alone in my studio and try to go to art openings, but the Sheffield art crowd seem a hard lot to crack. I was even hoping that working in a warehouse, with a reported 70 other artists (where are they all?) would naturally lead to interactions and friendships. These are few and far between. It is rare to run into someone. Last week I spotted a leaflet for a new group called "Swapping Stories". The description sounded like a writing group. It welcomed all newcomers to Sheffield, along with asylum seekers, and anyone wanting to tell or write stories amongst the group. I went to the first gathering and there was indeed an interesting mix of people. I like interesting mixes because you are guaranteed awkward moments, someone to talk to, someone who will talk to you, someone who will talk AT you, and someone to avoid that winds up endearing themselves to you so much that you eventually seek them out. How can you go wrong when you throw cookies and organic apples in on top of it all? As we went around the circle introducing ourselves it became clear that most of the people were there because they worked with or were interested in refugees or asylum seekers and wanted to help facilitate them into the group. Many of the conversations continually veered back to the topic of why there were no refugees or asylum seekers who showed up. There was a growing feeling in me that the invitation for newcomers to Sheffield was a bit of a filler and not the intended aim of the group. If that is true, that is too bad. I remember my dad's advice when we were growing up: if you have your eyes set on some goal and are working really hard to get towards and some other great opportunity comes along ...take it. You can always go back to your original goal, but the new opportunity might not present itself again.

A Lady Writing, Johannes Vermeer

Here are some of the short writing exercises I did in the group. A Description of Your First Memory including all the Senses. When I scan back to my first memory it must be one of the few I have before any of my sisters are born. I sit on the outside steps of a creaking wooden communal Victorian house on Charles Street. My doll who is clutched in my hands is as big as I am. She is plastic with that sort of thick matted hair that smelled a bit musty. There are adults sitting on the stairs around me, who I will later learn are called hippies and street people. To me they are all the people that live together with me in this big house. The people who concern me most are my dad (who is sitting next to me), my mom (who is standing on the sidewalk with a camera aimed at us), and the old man in the room next to ours who gives me sweet candies that melt into sharp shards on my tongue if I suck them too long. The sun is bright and my mom yells, "smile". I glance up and squint at the bright sun. To make sure everyone is posing appropriately I look at my doll, point my mom out and explain to her that she is being photographed. SNAP! That moment is frozen in my mind and in my childhood photo album. I think I am about two and a half. A Memory of an Event from Childhood (for which I ran out of time) I was 10 years old when Teresa came to live with us. It was explained to me that her parents weren't able to take care of her or her sister. Where is her sister, I asked? With her grandparents. Why can't her parents look after her? Because she was found alone and her parents had taken too many drugs. Why can't she stay with her grandparents too? We don't know. Teresa was 6 years old with blond hair and blue eyes. To make things confusing my 7 year old sister was also named Teresa and had blond hair and blue eyes. We had to call them by their first and middle names. Teresa Lynn was my real sister and Teresa Louise was my temporary sister. The three of us spent our time competing for our youngest sister's giggles and attention: Laura, 3 years old with brown hair and blue eyes who grew to hate being the centre of attention.

Lady Writing a Letter with Her Maid, Johannes Vermeer

All The Good Things

I have had a number of people asking what became of my art proposal to Mercy Ships. Mercy Ships decided they were not interested in being involved. I suspect an artist may represent too risky of a marketing move for a company intent on branding themselves. I think I am better off in the long run as their policies on complete copyright and creative control would make any art maker nervous. We have different visions and that, I realize, is fine.

I did however feel strongly (and brilliantly) about the idea. I was momentarily left hanging and wondering what had gone wrong. Then I reassessed as I often do when things don’t seem clear. I think most artist fluctuate between thinking they are the most brilliant thing out there and feeling like losers who can't produce anything other than shite. It is essential to have times where you think you are brilliant as it motivates the production of all those brilliant epiphanies. It will keep you thinking people are quite possibly blind when they don't buy into it. Artists shouldn’t fight their tendency to be sensitive either. It is there where artists record so that others can participate in perspectives they could not imagine. 



So, back to feeling like doggy doo on this particular occasion, not so much about the rejection itself, but more about how it was rejected. I pulled out my list entitled “all the good things” which is where I record all the really positive things that keep me believing in both myself and my goals.

All the good things (Apr/May)
-16,000 hits on my www.michal.ca for April
-receiving a random email from a man who inherited one of my paintings in a will
-selling 4 major and 2 minor works through Vancouver Art Gallery and an Alberta art auction
-selling $12,000 of work in two months through galleries while in Liberia
-discovering my work has been featured on paintblog.ca
-a friend writing a really nice blog about me
-a designer writing really positive comments about my work
-small encouraging notes my family members gave me at Christmas, but I saved until the spring
-4+ exhibitions I have lined up for the fall (with more ideas in tow)
-a strong sense that the best I have to offer is actually art related, not minor jobs
-the original proposal being picked up internationally with development possibilities into a bigger project than initially projected.

I would encourage anyone to write down lists like this. When I am not feeling that good about my situation, I pull it out and am instantly transported back to my exciting world of possibilities.

Faith

I was the first born to a young hippy couple that were part of the Jesus People Movement, a west coast Christian movement that broke down the barriers of traditional church. My early life was lived in communal housing with both street people and hippies. Once a second child was born we moved to our own house and had different boarders living with us. The house was always filled with all sorts of people: some intellectuals, others musicians, some shoemakers, others teachers, some mental health patients, others healers, some wanderers, others searchers, some peacemakers, and others rebels. Our young imaginations were left open to the vast enormity of it all and I felt God all around me.
When it came to faith, my parents allowed each of their 4 children to find their own journey. As a result, all 4 of us developed extremely different expressions that each now ring true with who we are and where we are in life. It was with such a family that I continually learned how to live alongside and learn from others.

When I became a teenager and chose to go to a popular church and youth group, I found myself facing rigid views I had never come across before. There was a way I was supposed to believe, feel, think, and act in order to be part of this Christian community at large. I spent a time trying to conform, as though God wasn’t attainable in the truest sense unless I jumped through these hoops. I began feeling rebellious, in my continual failure. The teachings never sat right with me. God, the one from my childhood, and Christian community soon became two very different places for me. I was careful not to let the latter too close to destroy the God I knew.

It was sometime around my mid teens when my family switched to a church with an intellectual pastor who had the mind of an artist. He thought outside the box and allowed me a glimpse of hope that my faith might still be legitimate. Still, my 20’s saw me firmly established as “one to pray for” in some Christian communities and I felt a strange compulsion to stir the pot and provoke them.

One day I saw my faith as a shelf of jars. Each jar was a different doctrine or belief. As I studied which jars were on my shelf I realized that there were many that had been placed there that I was not convicted of. I began the process of picking up each of those jars to put on the floor only to realize that there were more jars strewn around the floor. These were even more thoughts and beliefs, some of which I had taken off my shelf at times when I felt I wasn’t supposed to believe such things. I was overwhelmed and the process of moving jars back and forth didn’t appear straightforward.

It was around this time that I decided to announce I was no longer a Christian. It seemed the best way to eliminate the pressure of other’s expectations and to allow me a clear space to think out what I believed. The first thing I did was clear the entire shelf of jars. Everything went on the floor. In doing this I realized that what I was really searching for was truth and love. Truth, because there I would find God. Love, because even as a child I knew without a doubt that love was the most important thing in the world.

Two jars went on to my shelf. Two jars I was convicted of: firstly, Love and secondly, the fact that there was a creator who loved me. That was it. As simple as that. No doctrine. No having to feel washed in the blood of a lamb. Nothing. There were no barriers that God had to conform to. No rules of engagement that I could feel secure seating myself in.

I felt free and I felt excited. If I could say I could sense God at all, I sensed that he was waiting for me to do this all along, as though he couldn’t operate in the box either. It was a liberating time in which a lot of my early convictions came flooding back to me. But instead of life becoming black and white and lining up in neat rows of easily distinguishable laws, I was relieved to feel things getting greyer, less defined. Life grew even more colourful, imaginative, creative, and daring. Anything could happen. As things became less defined they became simpler, as contradictory as it sounds. Instead of figuring out whether something was right or wrong I was to just accept and love. This sat well with my soul.

I was heavily involved in the arts and found an extremely accepting community among them. Artists by nature are somewhat counter culture and so accept each other with all their warts and bruises, destruction and rebelliousness, and ever realness. I could be myself there and people appreciated who that was. I found I could openly talk about my deep protected faith at unguarded moments and they still accepted me.

I've had a handful of friends over the years that between us we could share our faith in a way that supported the other. One was a Muslim. One practiced her First Nations ancestor’s beliefs. One was exploring Buddhism. I hate these titles, because these individuals are so much more than labels, but it makes the point that I felt a deep connection with what might appear on the surface to be very different people. We were each either searching for love and truth or we had both in some way met the Creator.

And so it sits. My shelf remains pretty bare. 3 jars currently sit there. The third came from a person I heard speak about the cycle of physical addiction and how it relates identically to the cycle of failure within faith. Although I would say that there is a lot I stand for, experience, and believe, I don’t often define things as concrete as my jars.

My last thought and a profound realization for me is this simple truth:
“Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love.”

Blood Shot

I awoke today with bloodshot eyes. This is usually a sign that I've pulled an all-nighter writing an essay and my body and mind are ready to quit. My creative options are drastically limited on board this ship, I am tired, and I am beginning to show the signs of strain. I lay in bed last night with a desperation that left my brain whirling. How could I find a creative outlet with the time I have and make a statement all at once? The idea I came up with in my exhaustion last night seemed so brilliant.

I would go punk.

I lay there and made a mental scan of my wardrobe deciding that everything must go except maybe a couple of edgy black and plaid items. I planned my hair. I planned my makeup. I even came up with fake body piercing solutions.

The next day as I was teaching art to the teenagers at the Academy I told them what I was thinking. One UK student, ever enthusiastic (who reminds me of me at that age) said eagerly, "hey, Michal, I'll go punk with you!" Imagine.

Bless! (as those English would say)

Things I've Learned About Myself Since Being Married

The title does not indicate any deep introspective soul searching that I have done, just a list of things that suddenly a constant observer is pointing out to me.

"Michal, did you know you...

...choke at least twice a day on your food?" (Hey, I actually do!)
...become queazy by anything to do with veins?" (And you talk about how you would like to slide a needle into my fat ones)
...that you are all or nothing?" (junk food binging vs. healthy living, moods, organization...)
...bump into things on a regular basis?" (I wondered where all those bruises came from)
...don't swallow enough and have spit forming inside your mouth?" (Yeah, I already knew that. Thanks.)
...don't have a very good sense of direction?" (in my defence, streets in the UK are far more confusing a layout than Canada)

The Birthday Sequence

On my actual birthday my friends, Olivia and Andrew (pictured above in Paris), made me an amazing dinner and, at my request, fruit smoothies for dessert. They put candles in the drink for me and I made sure to leave one still burning when I blew them out (for you, Nigel!)