Occasionally, someone wonders
whether an emerging painter will end up being a superstar. Can we ever tell?
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Iowa Cornfield, 1941, Grant
Wood
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This week I contemplated a piece of contemporary art
with a gallerist. “I don’t see thinking,” she said. “I only see beautiful
contours. It’s content-free. There is no struggle.”
I can’t imagine anything more stultifying than striving to
be in the Pantheon of Great Artists. However, the question of what makes great
art is an important one. Great art must satisfy long after the flash of novelty
dissipates. How does it do that?
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The Ghent Altarpiece, early
15th century, Hubert and Jan van Eyck, courtesy Wikipedia.
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Technique
It ought to go without saying that mastery of one’s craft is
the primary job of the artist. Sadly, that’s not always true in contemporary western
art, where ephemeral ideas sometimes mean more than specialized competence. However,
if one looks back at art which has staying power, it’s always technically superb.
How do you get to Carnegie Hall, sister? Practice, practice, practice.
Courage
Art is a process of exploration, a constant revolution. An
artist must travel beyond his abilities every time he picks up a brush, or he
begins to parody himself. The end of our training is, conversely, the beginning
of our real education.
People sometimes tell me that they want to be ‘more
consistent’ in their painting. I think that’s a trap, antithetical to the idea
of development. A consistent body of work just comes with time.
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Emotional content
One reason I hate writing artist’s statements is that I
believe my real content is inexplicable. You, the outsider, might understand
it, but the word-spewing part of my brain never will. Still, I hope my simple
trees, boats and rocks convey something greater than their nominal subject.
There’s lots of art that’s didactic, and I’ve produced much
of it myself. But didacticism is not necessary. Nor is it the hallmark of real artistic
maturity, which somehow moves beyond issues.
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The Railway, 1873, Édouard
Manet, courtesy Wikipedia.
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Within the vision of
our times
Johann
Sebastian Bach is recognized as one of the greatest composers of history.
His period and his style were the Baroque. He was one
of its last practitioners. He grew up within its aesthetic and it reached
a climax in his writing. He was both within the vision of his time and the full
flowering of that vision.
Knowing whether we’re painting within our period is
difficult. In my first class with Cornelia
Foss, she had me paint an orange on a tray. “If it was 1950, I’d say ‘Brava’,”
she said. “But it’s not.” It was the best criticism I’ve ever received—she was
telling me my technique was fine, but my style was dated.
We’re not Hudson River painters, we’re not Dutch Golden Age
painters. This is the 21st century, and we need to paint what speaks
to our peers. That’s often uncomfortable, and frequently a mystery.
You can’t count on your audience for advice with this. They're as mystified as we are.
Bach was forgotten soon after his death. His works were rediscovered by Felix Mendelssohn. In
1823 Mendelssohn’s grandmother gave him a copy of the score for Bach's St. Matthew Passion. Five years later, Mendelssohn
mounted a performance of this long-forgotten masterpiece. His selfless promotion of a dead artist gave
Bach his rightful place in music history.
