The Making of “Farm to Table”: Plating

“It’s too pretty to eat!”, she squeals from the table next to me, snapping photos for posterity and a post on social media.  Some would say we eat with our eyes; the more artfully food is arranged on the plate, the more appetizing.  True or not, I’ll seek out a restaurant with high standards when it comes to plating food.  A gorgeous plate feels decadent.  It’s all about a harmonious color palette, proportions, balance and the use of space.  It’s not unlike art. 

Collage making is an exercise in arrangement.  The idea that paintings can be torn apart and made into entirely new and more appealing compositions is thrilling, and at the same time it’s hard to make that first tear, even with a less than optimal painting, because it’s a commitment that alters a known entity with no promise that the sacrifice will create something better.  It’s both an opportunity and a threat.

Working in series, I’ll have multiple collages in development at the same time.  Once the first few tears are made and the major elements are fleshed out, the real work begins.  The same pieces will float across the compositions, as if auditioning to win the role they are best suited for.  Orientation changes; overlapping is tested to build the proper depth.  Many photos are snapped to allow for comparing and contrasting of different options.  More changes are made when sifting through the scrap pile yet again unearths the perfect piece, the one I didn’t know I was missing.  Nothing is glued down until I’m happy with them all.

Compositions continue to be honed, even at this stage.  Some may be dramatically simplified, even from my initial drawings and studies, if compact images come together to deliver force and surprise.  I gravitate toward the unexpected.  A lot of my work is about cutting through the noise of the paintings to pull out the bits that can concisely tell the story I want to convey.  Sometimes I know exactly what that story is, and other times the piece decides the story we’re telling.

These early collages in the Farm to Table series have a hint of realism which can be troublesome for me.  If I attempt to accurately render, rather than stylistically represent, the rungs on the ladder up an old grain silo or the weathered panels of wood siding on a barn, I’m adding to the noise rather than stripping it away.  Before I know it, I’m trying too hard to tell the viewers what they’re looking at instead of allowing them to discover it for themselves.  I often think it’s not that I can’t depict realism; it’s that my art belongs less to me if I do. 

My goal is to land with a piece abstract enough to safely not be mistaken for a failed attempt at a faithful facsimile, yet not so ambiguous it’s impossible to glean my intent.  If I’m leaning too far towards realism it’s easy for my viewer to home in on what’s not exacting about the work, and if I’m too abstract, I haven’t given my viewer enough clues to figure out what I’m trying to say. 

While I want every viewer to observe my pieces and take their own meaning from the imagery, I strive to create work sprinkled with enough context for any viewer to be able to recognize my inspiration as plausible, even if it doesn’t match their interpretation.  It’s like seeing shapes in the clouds.  You see one thing, your friend sees another; it’s a game predicated upon mutual openness to other perspectives. 

I love art because it can be a safe space to practice a dialogue of different points of view.  As humans we yearn to be heard and understood, to have the agency to express the unique opinions grounded in our onlyness, while at the same time hearing out another who sees the same situation in a completely different way.  For me there is no wrong answer when a viewer looks at my work.  There is my intent plated, ready to be consumed by an audience with very diverse tastes. 

“The stomach carries the heart, and not the heart the stomach.” -- Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra