Art as luxury, art as leisure, art as entertainment — in short, art as something different from, or even opposed to — “real life” and its very real hardships. These ideas permeate the modern life, and so they are bound to live in one’s mind, even if one resists them consciously.
Do you ever doubt the relevance of painting in the modern world?
My life has been nourished by this art form for as long as I can remember myself, and the last dozen or so years of my life (and hopefully, some years to come) are predicated on my faith in its utmost meaningfulness. But the question about the role of painting in the modern world does exist in my mind — and occasionally resurfaces and claims my attention.
Just a couple of weeks ago, I told my husband about the book I was reading, “Art and Human Consciousness” by Gottfried Richter, and mentioned that it was first published in Germany in 1937. And he asked me: “1937 in Germany? Didn’t he notice what was going on around him?!”
Don’t get me wrong: my husband is not someone who would usually question the relevance of art in human life. But the belief expressed in this question is not something that can be just swept aside: it’s the belief that there are times so dark and dangerous that all our usual pursuits — however important and full of meaning they may be — ought to be set aside. Muses ought to stay silent. Or, to push it a bit more: art is a luxury for sunny days, for good and peaceful times.
Art as luxury, art as leisure, art as entertainment — in short, art as something different from, or even opposed to — “real life” and its very real hardships. These ideas permeate the modern life, and so they are bound to live in one’s mind, even if one resists them consciously.
So this conversation stirred familiar questions in my mind, and I decided not to resist them, but to face them — to live through them fully, with all the intensity I can muster. Why art? What is it for? Why painting? How can one’s conscience possibly justify devoting one’s life to painting?
Because for all we know, our time may be even more dangerous and critical than the thirties of the last century in Germany. It’s a time of disruptive, dramatic changes, and the humankind doesn’t quite seem to be able to deal with them (and, arguably, even to comprehend them fully): a time ecological catastrophes, economical crises, poverty, wars, outbursts of xenophobia and fear everywhere. All these problems seem much more obviously urgent, much more “real”, than painting the next painting or going to an art exhibition… At times, it feels like singing a song on a rapidly sinking ship, or reciting a poem in a house about to be consumed by fire.
And, of course, what we call “real life” tends to claims our attention, time, and energy in a variety of more tangible, nearer, daily ways. It shows up as the need to make a living, to care for one’s family, to deal with household chores and health issues. Just recently, while teaching an art class, I witnessed my students facing such small or not so small matters which invariably presented themselves as something much more urgent, real, and necessary than painting. And in my own life, guarding my painting time from the never-ending demands of daily life sometimes requires a conscious effort.
Art has been claiming its own insignificance for “real life” — its existence for its own sake only — so powerfully, and for such a long time, that it has become “common sense”. And even among art forms, isn’t painting the least relevant one, least suitable for the modern high-speed world filled with high-resolution visual noise — being, as it is, so silent, so immobile, so unobtrusive; so absolutely incapable of claiming our attention unless it is given willingly? How can painting possibly matter?
I don’t think anyone who hears the call of painting — who experiences the desire to paint or even to just be with paintings — can really escape these questions. That’s why I’ve decided not just to live them fully myself, but to record this experience in a series of essays for this blog — a painter contemplating these questions and searching for answers (if you would like to follow this series, please use the form on the left bar to subscribe).
[…] And so my life, and the steady progress of my studio work, make a swerve, creating a mirroring pause in the flow of sonnet paintings: me sleeping in Shakespeare’s report. And if that wasn’t enough, the whole theme of need for painting branched out into a newly emerged plan for a series of essays fo… […]