What’s Art, Anyway?

Last week I had lunch with new friends here in Heaven. They are all artists. We talked about — or expressed ourselves — about what makes art. Some cried out against landscapes. Some cried out against something else. Some expressed the opinion that certain photographs and certain kinds of paintings were steps in the “progress” one makes to become a real artist. Some cried out against painting from photographs. One of them and I agreed that if an artist isn’t pushing themselves, it’s boring.

I came home inhibited. I paint landscapes. I paint other things, but I do paint landscapes and I thought they were art because they’re not easy for me. I also paint from photographs — I consider many of the photos I take to be sketches from which I’ll paint at some point. I don’t see why anyone should sit in a mosquito infested field with a sketch pad and go home and paint from it when they could just take a photo. I do other paintings, too, but painting landscapes and painting from photos improve my technique with the brush and with color.

The great thing of painting, for me, has been freedom, but now I feel less free. As I listened, I also thought, ” These guys have been to school and gotten advanced degrees in art. I didn’t do that.”

As far as getting along with my art teachers, I’m 2 for 2. My experience of “studying” art can be distilled into Stephen Crane’s poem.

“Think as I think,” said a man,
“Or you are abominably wicked; you are
a toad.”
And after I thought of it, I said, “I will, then, be a toad.”

My artistic heroes are the guys who painted day in and day out whatever someone told them to paint because they needed to earn a living. Those guys would have mastered the craft in ways most modern artists never need to. When I was wandering around in Verona, I went to the cathedral and went through the oldest part of the church. The cathedral was an architectural concretion. There were workmen restoring frescoes that were more than 1000 years old. A canvas tarp hung between the passageway and their work to help keep their work clean. I sat down outside the tarp and listened to them talk.

They weren’t talking about the meaning of art or if they were or were not artists. They were talking a bit about the materials they were using (native ochres, mostly), but for the most part they were planning their weekends.

I envied them their skills and training, but, as Goethe wrote, through our lives — especially in our youth — we look ahead down myriad pathways. We go a little way on one and then the other before we find the one that fits us best. He was in his late 30s when he turned away forever from the possibility of being an artist. He was in Italy when he made this determination about himself. He’d lost interest in writing. He was weighed down by Sorrows of Young Werther and the resultant fame and the numerous copy-cat suicides. He wanted to write something else. He wondered if he could. Some months in Italy, and he found his way back to unfinished projects — Tasso and Iphegenia among others. The drawings he’d imagined he would do as a record of his Italian journey became the job of a young German artist, Christoph Heinrich Kniep.

I have a beautiful little book of Goethe’s watercolor sketches of places in Italy and Switzerland, some of which I have seen in real life, too. My favorite is his sketch of the Rheinfall. I have seen the Reinfall several times and it makes me happy to be able to look at the vision Goethe had while he was there.

He wrote about it, too, in Faust II, and I recognized it right away in his words — it is also my very favorite passage in all that Goethe wrote — and it is a painting in its way.

The waterfall I now behold with growing
Delight as it roars down to the Ravine.
From fall to fall a thousand streams are flowing,
A thousand more are plunging, effervescent,
And high up in the air the spray is glowing.
Out of this thunder, rises, iridescent,
Enduring through all change the motley bow,
Now painted clearly, now evanescent,
Spreading a fragrant, cooling spray below.
The rainbow mirrors human love and strife;
Consider it and you will better know:
In many hued reflection we have life.

A landscape.

A photo of the Rheinfalls -- there is very often a rainbow.

A photo of the Rheinfalls — there is very often a rainbow.

13 thoughts on “What’s Art, Anyway?

  1. My writers workshop is filled with similar proscriptive statements. You’ve heard them, I’m sure. Show, don’t tell. No adverbs. Minimalist writing. It comes from overeducation and overrefinement of taste. One says always they need more information, more details, and to satisfy that one, my book would have been twice as long. Another says too much conversation even though it is well done. We deconstruct and create rules about art to separate ourselves from the unwashed masses who do not do art. It’s silly and pretentious.

    I write the way I write. You paint the way you paint. These other folks have to get over it.

    • When I was young I thought there was some meaning to all this discussion, now I think it’s all a matter of personal taste which is illogical and unarguable.

  2. I’ll take your landscapes over an unmade bed, a sheep in formaldehyde, a pile of bricks or (as I once saw) a mound of rotting toast. But what do I know? I’m still trying to stay inside the lines of a colouring book for grown-ups πŸ™‚

  3. Your new “friends” are snobs and in my un-artistic opinion they are most likely no more talented than anyone in general who calls themselves artists, (not sure that sentence reads the way I intended.

    I say to hell with people like that. Please continue to paint for yourself and for your followers. I happen to think the mural that you painted and is that is now your header is excellent.

    • Thank you! Me too and the joy I felt in painting it was even BETTER than the mural. It was so much fun! There’s really NO other reason to paint, IMO. πŸ™‚

  4. There are so many wankers in all creative fields (sorry about the word, but there isn’t another that says what I mean as effectively). In literature, they’re the ones I refer to as ‘the literati’ – those who’d rather die than admit they enjoy a good yarn simply told: they insitst on profundity, which really amounts to something so obscure it’s almost meaningless. I’m sure Goethe and Shakespeare would have fared badly in modern poetry competitions.
    Without the toads, creativity would die a death.

  5. Years ago, as I gazed at an art gallery installation that consisted of a paper bag tacked to a wall and then splashed with paint, I thought of the story, “The Emperor’s New Clothes.” At that moment, I decided not to trust what the “cognoscenti” had to say (in big, important words, for the most part) about art.

    I have a friend who’s been an artist for 35 years, and she advised me to paint whatever I wanted to paint and not to worry about what anyone else thought about it. The process, she said, was the important part.

    She’s got the intellect and the art degrees (as well as a teaching degree; she was a teacher prior to becoming an artist), and yes, of courses she uses the practical things she learned about drawing and painting. However, she paints entirely from her heart, and she paints whatever the hell she chooses to paint.

    Oh, and she’s been selling her paintings–almost as an afterthought–from the beginning. People find out she’s a painter (that’s what she calls herself), see her work, and buy.

    Ribbit is right!

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