I can’t remember how many times I went to the Art Institute with my grandmother in Chicago.
On our way into the vast Romanesque building, my grandma would say,
“You know those lions (those two famous aged, bronze statues that flank the entrance)?”
“Yeah?”
“They don’t know you.”
Then she’d laugh out loud; she loved that she stumped me with that joke, again. I wonder how many times I let her tell me that joke because I loved to hear her say, “They don’t know you.”
While I was growing up in the suburbs, my Gram lived in Chicago on the Northside near Foster Beach. Going to the city, affectionately known as ‘Grandma’s Village,’ was something I always looked forward to. My Aunt, my Uncle, and my Grandmother all taught me to explore and appreciate all the culture of the city: the theater, the arts, the museums, the eclectic architecture, the zoo, the beaches, the fountains and river, of course the deep dish pizza. My favorite thing to do was spend time with them; I have a lifetime of wonderful Chicago memories.
Going to the Art Institute was like going to church. It was sacred. Everyone was quiet or spoke softly. We wouldn’t dare think of raising our voices, arguing, or running around in the galleries. No, we walked from room to room with proper curiosity. I liked every thing there: from Monet to the Modern art.
There were some artists on my mom’s side of the family: my Aunt Alice, My Uncle Bob. My mother did crafts. My earliest art projects were macrame wall hangings and candle making; my first drawing was an Indian in a canoe. Most of my paintings were paint by number back then. When I got older, I did puffy paint shoes (which were novel by the way). And I made jewelry for a time too. But I always wanted to learn how to paint with acrylic. I had no direction. As a kid, I’d watch Bob Ross on PBS. He was so relaxing and kind when he’d paint waterfalls and mountains. I probably wasn’t a natural talent otherwise my parents would have provided more art supplies instead of a guitar (and I wasn’t very good at that either). Yet, something inside of me appreciates art to the point of wanting to learn.
When I moved to Dunedin, I enrolled in art classes at the Dunedin Fine Arts Center. I was actually terrified. Up until then, my only art experience was painting Care Bears on Kevin’s nursery walls. I thought I’d give abstract art a try because I could just move paint around and play. I don’t think you can screw up abstract too much. My Uncle Bob did abstract art; how hard could it be? I quickly realized abstract art had it’s own methods of balance and color and play. I liked doing it but would feel stressed in a larger art class. I know we are not supposed to compare ourselves, but I couldn’t help it. The ‘judgy artist’ in my head was ruthlessly critical. I knew I wasn’t good yet; I hadn’t painted long enough. The reason I know I suck is because I know good art. I’ve been going art museums since I was a little girl. I don't have natural talent. I had to press on if I was going to get passed the voice in my head telling me to give it up.
And the little secret I learned about art, the VERY BEST PART is that Gesso is my friend. I can paint over everything I hate, and start all over again. Just like the “Hidden Women in Pablo Picasso’s The Old Guitarist.
On our way into the vast Romanesque building, my grandma would say,
“You know those lions (those two famous aged, bronze statues that flank the entrance)?”
“Yeah?”
“They don’t know you.”
Then she’d laugh out loud; she loved that she stumped me with that joke, again. I wonder how many times I let her tell me that joke because I loved to hear her say, “They don’t know you.”
While I was growing up in the suburbs, my Gram lived in Chicago on the Northside near Foster Beach. Going to the city, affectionately known as ‘Grandma’s Village,’ was something I always looked forward to. My Aunt, my Uncle, and my Grandmother all taught me to explore and appreciate all the culture of the city: the theater, the arts, the museums, the eclectic architecture, the zoo, the beaches, the fountains and river, of course the deep dish pizza. My favorite thing to do was spend time with them; I have a lifetime of wonderful Chicago memories.
Going to the Art Institute was like going to church. It was sacred. Everyone was quiet or spoke softly. We wouldn’t dare think of raising our voices, arguing, or running around in the galleries. No, we walked from room to room with proper curiosity. I liked every thing there: from Monet to the Modern art.
There were some artists on my mom’s side of the family: my Aunt Alice, My Uncle Bob. My mother did crafts. My earliest art projects were macrame wall hangings and candle making; my first drawing was an Indian in a canoe. Most of my paintings were paint by number back then. When I got older, I did puffy paint shoes (which were novel by the way). And I made jewelry for a time too. But I always wanted to learn how to paint with acrylic. I had no direction. As a kid, I’d watch Bob Ross on PBS. He was so relaxing and kind when he’d paint waterfalls and mountains. I probably wasn’t a natural talent otherwise my parents would have provided more art supplies instead of a guitar (and I wasn’t very good at that either). Yet, something inside of me appreciates art to the point of wanting to learn.
When I moved to Dunedin, I enrolled in art classes at the Dunedin Fine Arts Center. I was actually terrified. Up until then, my only art experience was painting Care Bears on Kevin’s nursery walls. I thought I’d give abstract art a try because I could just move paint around and play. I don’t think you can screw up abstract too much. My Uncle Bob did abstract art; how hard could it be? I quickly realized abstract art had it’s own methods of balance and color and play. I liked doing it but would feel stressed in a larger art class. I know we are not supposed to compare ourselves, but I couldn’t help it. The ‘judgy artist’ in my head was ruthlessly critical. I knew I wasn’t good yet; I hadn’t painted long enough. The reason I know I suck is because I know good art. I’ve been going art museums since I was a little girl. I don't have natural talent. I had to press on if I was going to get passed the voice in my head telling me to give it up.
And the little secret I learned about art, the VERY BEST PART is that Gesso is my friend. I can paint over everything I hate, and start all over again. Just like the “Hidden Women in Pablo Picasso’s The Old Guitarist.
 |
| Picasso's Hidden Women under The Old Guitarist |
My art teachers, Candy Schultheis, Lorraine Potocki, and Sue Adams were so patient with me. I see the wisdom of their feedback and change accordingly as much as my brain and fingers are able; it’s a good discipline practice in life to do something where others have to give you feedback to improve. I truly enjoy them as women and I admire their art so much.
 |
| Cy Twombly-Philidephia Museum of Art |
My art will never hang at the Art Institute of Chicago or the Met in NYC. Unless, by some mad stroke of luck, someone mistakes me for the next Cy Twombly. It was Cy Twombly who helped me realize I am an artist (at least on a soul level). Art is subjective. Andy Warhol says, “Art is what you can get away with.” Most artists or musicians are tortured in their process until they become competent. I have moments when all I want to do is play with paint; the learning part of art is always harder for me. I won’t give up. I’ll keep putting myself before the blank canvas. After all, letting go of judgment, comparison, and expectations is a real art.
No comments:
Post a Comment