Lessons Learned
Sketchbook and trusty Sign Pen in hand for random drawing and copious notetaking, I took my place the first evening of painting class and hung on the instructor’s every word. I proceeded to do the things suggested, leaning into letting the paint do what it does, happy to use bright and vivid colors I’m consistently drawn to in my own practice. By the second class, the instructor affirmed my technical skills and asked me to go first when it came time to share our work. I thought I had nailed it. And so, when in the final session my work was challenged with a basic, yet perplexing question, I found myself trying to arrange my face in a way that would play up my confusion while concealing my embarrassment. On the Mood Elevator, curiosity is in the middle, where we’re encouraged to direct our emotions in a triggering situation. Be open, I told myself, there is something to learn from this.
I gathered up the booty of torn up paintings littering my workspace and packed up to leave, vexed, deflated, and yes, curious about what the instructor saw in my work that prompted picking up a painting, comparing it to one of my collages, and stating that in essence they looked the same. If my collages look like my paintings, I was asked, why bother to collage?
After sleeping on it, I was in a better place to consider the answer. I thought it was best to start with why I signed up for this class in the first place. Classes were held in a beautiful setting, close to home, where I’ve painted outdoors in the past; the curriculum was purported to be abstraction, a topic I’m consumed with at the moment. I’ve been studying with the same instructor for more than six years; the time had come to see what might be new and different about learning from another teacher.
The classes were led by a commercially successful artist who hadn’t quite worked out how to distill and impart all that experience in the role of instructor. I spent the better part of the sessions trying to figure out whether anything was being taught and how to apply to my own practice the knowledge, perspective and opinions offered. But I’ll admit I was lost. Where were the prompts that would launch me on a path of exploration? Why were we sitting in the basement classroom imagining compositions when nature’s inspiration beckoned right outside the door? In the absence of any structured teaching, what could I pull out that would make me a better artist?
By class three I was treating the program as an independent study, applying my own process. I did some thumbnail sketches as prework, so I was prepared with compositions to paint. In between sessions, I made more paintings in my chosen color palette. All leading up to the final class where I would make collages. In the absence of being taught specifics or guided to take work in a different direction, I did what I always do.
In the corporate world of coaching, performance reviews, and year-end ratings that determine compensation increases, we’re often told that feedback is a gift. I should want to hear what you have to say about my work even if I don’t ask for it. It took me a long time to train myself to take the feedback, consider what seems right and true to me and use it, discarding any bits that don’t suit me. In the art world where I have no manager, I define my own direction and I am the sole decisionmaker when it comes to what belongs in my portfolio and what is good, I guess it’s only human for another professional’s opinion to continue to matter to me. And so, I pulled on that thread, seeking feedback from people who know my work, presenting the instructor’s question and asking for critiques.
It became clear to me that I hadn’t told my instructor how I define a finished piece. Understanding what the artist considers to be done, and the process involved to get there says as much about the art as the art itself, maybe more. And at the same time the steps to get to a finished piece are often invisible to the viewer whose only engagement with the work is looking at it in its final state. For me the painting is not the end, it’s the beginning.
The work itself is not in making the paintings. The paintings are pure play, a mark-making free for all where palettes and compositions are worked out. The real work begins when an array of related paintings is strewn in front of me and I need to decide which to cut or tear. I’m making puzzle pieces, essentially, that are then put together to create a brand-new composition, dismantling or otherwise making the original painting unrecognizable. The process starts slowly, moving more deeply into abstraction as more shapes become available on the scrap table.
One might say my collages resemble my paintings, and yes, those stylistic similarities are intentional. I’m not looking to introduce a new language, but rather open up a dialogue between the support painting and the shapes on top of it. When I do it well, the collaged pieces create, amplify or interrupt rhythm or movement across the painting that supports them. It’s not meant to be entirely clear where the painting ends and the collage begins. These blurred lines are food for thought asking viewers to come up with their own interpretation or connect with mine. The collage is an extension of the painting, a mystery for the viewer to solve that has no right answer.
It would have been easy to get buried in the grousing, interpreting the question of why I collage as a waste of my time, dismissing it as silly or unfounded, or deflecting into the lack of inspired instruction. But I walked away with so much more: Newfound confidence in my work and a richer way to talk about my process and the outcomes I seek. I’m a better artist than I was four weeks ago.