The Grit of Going
WIP (Untitled). sticks, paper mache, stones, acrylic paint
This past week, despite all the sadness, confusion, and anger, I still am trying my best to produce in the studio. I’m finding it really hard to concentrate and all I seem to be accomplishing are multiple days lost in thoughts. Maybe it is a distraction from the growing heartache, but I have been spending a lot of time mulling over how we communicate as visual artists. And why I feel I struggle so hard to be heard.
Sometimes I do finally really get to work in the studio; I mean the times when I finally can stop thinking about what I need at the grocery store or what errand I forgot to do yesterday. Or god forbid if I succumb to the craving to read the news again. When I do manage to get to that real working place, I am stripped of the many protective layers and my heart is exposed. It’s an extremely vulnerable place and I am always glad I am alone when I’m there. Ultimately though, I know I am not making art for me. It is meant to be shared. I am trying to communicate. I am trying to lay bare the most essential part of being human. That very core fundamental component of humanity that is the same as yours. No matter who you are. It always seems within reach and I always feel I fall short.
This past week, I was called upon to “defend” so to speak a title of a piece. I felt I needed to explain why I titled a piece a certain way as if that would clarify my intent. That set me off on a whole number of days contemplating why words need to be part of my visual language and why I have such an incredibly hard time interpreting what I am really speaking to in my work. Or I should say, what is speaking to me in my work. Because that is what happens. When I am truly vulnerable and have stopped the voices in my head, I become a conduit. My intent, my purpose, my will takes a back seat and the work is allowed to happen. How the hell do I begin to explain that in words? When it really seems as if it isn’t mine anyway.
I am trying to communicate. To you. Every single time I make something. I swear. Then, the work goes unseen. It gets stored. Or worse, it gets seen and then gets stored. And I continue to make more work. It is understandable that I continue to have this debate with myself as to whether or not I am visually communicating. It is no wonder I try to find words that might make it easier to lead people there.
We don’t live in a bubble. Every day we interact, we communicate, we live, breathe and sleep. With each other. I suppose I am trying to point that out. It’s simple. There is significance everywhere. From the way a tree grows to find light, to the way that same tree decomposes and is consumed with death. I am compelled to document this. I am holding myself accountable to make sense of this for you. For me.
For now, it’s back to work.
PS: I just today found this again in my studio. Thank you Bud
four roads are one thing
but six roads are something else
is it for instance
leading where
are they
you need to go
any one way
& another
& all those ways
compose compose
worn brick
broken stick
the grit of going
Bud Lawrence 2009