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Wasting time, and other lies about art

The artistā€™s first responsibility is to tell the truth. But what does that mean?

Child prodigy Alma Elizabeth Deutscher, courtesy Askonas Holt.
ā€œSome people have told me that I compose in a musical language of the past and that this is not allowed in the 21st century. In the past, it was possible to compose beautiful melodies and beautiful music, but today, they say, Iā€™m not allowed to compose like this because I need to discover the complexity of the modern world, and the point of music is to show the complexity of the world.
ā€œWell, let me tell you a huge secret: I already know that the world is complex and can be very ugly. But I think that these people have just got a little bit confused! If the world is so ugly, then whatā€™s the point of making it even uglier with ugly music?ā€

That was said by 12-year-old British child prodigy Alma Elizabeth Deutscher. I didnā€™t understand that at 12; I donā€™t think I understood it at age 40.
The artistā€™s first responsibility is to tell the truth. But the truth is enormous, and an artist can only bite off so much. For me that has included times of serious self-questioning and times of feminist rage. Right now, the greatest truth I want to share is a command: look around and notice our blessings.
So much of modern culture is bleak, negative, and destructive. Meanwhile, weā€™re healthier and less stressed than any time in history. Our kids donā€™t die of tuberculosis and our men are not being conscripted to march off to war. So why do one in six Americans need prescription drugs to get through their days, and so many others dull their reality with opioids or booze?
I know theyā€™re not faking their distress. But the gap between our actual condition and our perception of it is enormous. As an artist, I canā€™t bring myself to contribute to it by pointing out any more problems. Who needs that on their walls?
Wall hanging in Planet Coffee in Ottawa, Canada, part of series hommage Barack Obama, by Dominik Sokolowski.

A friend was recently in Ottawa and saw the picture above. ā€œThis is a large wall hanging in Planet Coffee in Ottawa, Canada. Why is President #44 on display in Canada and not the US?ā€ she asked.
Sometimes art is propaganda. But in general, art is a personal statement that conveys the ideas and feelings of the artist. This, by the way, is not a flattering portrait of President Obama. It seems, instead, that the artist is very conflicted.
The other answer to her question is that Americans may need an escape from the relentless bad news of politics right now. More relentlessly bad news about sex crimes is not the answer. Some conversation about our blessings would be more helpful.
Here’s an idea that never went anywhere, a maquette of a painting-sculpture, by me.
Last night, a friend said that he never understood how ā€˜you have too much time on your handsā€™ came to be an insult. ā€œItā€™s the rallying cry of jealous, small minded people who think that uncomfortable employment is the mark of a moral character.ā€
Itā€™s a slam Iā€™ve heard many times. In fact, Iā€™ve had to consciously let go of my Puritan work ethic to make headway as an artist. Sometimes my visions are not brilliantly developed, and often they look suspiciously like play. But itā€™s in that fizzing that the artistic mind does its work, and it often happens when weā€™re engaged in the most boring of tasks.
Part of that work ethic is the idea that art has to make us uncomfortable, or itā€™s not ā€˜real artā€™. Rubbish. Itā€™s the ability to see the world in a new, happier way that makes a child such as Alma Elizabeth Deutscher such an asset.

The passing parade

"A Little Bit of Everything," by Carol L. Douglas (sold).

ā€œA Little Bit of Everything,ā€ by Carol L. Douglas (sold).
Mary Byrom is doing something she calls chunking, which is concentrating on a single problem every day in small studies, which take her about 20 minutes. ā€œIt could be color temperature, or composition, or line, or whatever you are working on and thinking about,ā€ she explained to me. Since the human brain takes in information best in small units, her idea makes sense to me.
I think I do something similar when I do short value studies. To me, compositionā€”formā€”is the overriding question, so Iā€™m always drawing little thumbnails to try to get better. I donā€™t really worry if they look like anything; theyā€™re only to sort out the problem of dividing the canvas in an interesting way.
"End of Day," by Carol L. Douglas (sold).

ā€œEnd of Day,ā€ by Carol L. Douglas (sold).
When I arrived at Ogunquit on Saturday, I did not walk the Marginal Way with a camera or mechanical viewfinder. In fact, I only took one photo all weekend, and it was of sunbathers curled up with their Kindles.
Instead, I carried my wee little Sketch-N-Can. When a location called to me, I stopped for a moment to absorb it through my pores, and then did a value sketch or two.
It didnā€™t matter that I ended up using none of these sketches for my final paintings. I understood Ogunquitā€™s particular rock formations a lot better than when Iā€™d arrived.
"The Path," by Carol L. Douglas (available).

ā€œThe Path,ā€ by Carol L. Douglas (available).
This event had just five painters. These small events are my particular favorites because they allow the artists a chance to really talk to each other. (In addition to Mary Byrom, there were Kathy MorrisseyJohn Caggiano, and Frank Costantino.)
I enjoy the snippets of conversation I hear when painting, and the Marginal Way is perfect for that. There is always speculation on how much houses cost, or how people could escape their workaday lives and move to Maine. On the other hand, many people talk about work. Others talk about their kids. In a family destination, thereā€™s always a lot of real-time child-rearing going on as well.
"Bell Buoy in the Distance (Morning Light)," by Carol L. Douglas (sold).

ā€œBell Buoy in the Distance (Morning Light),ā€ by Carol L. Douglas (sold).
These young parents reminded me all too poignantly of the years when I walked the Marginal Way with my own kids, telling them to stay off the rocks, to hold my hand, to say thank you to the nice lady. At first I was uncomfortable with the depth of feeling it evoked. Eventually, it was just sweet to hear echoes of my own parenting days. In some ways, the Marginal Way is a metaphor for life: a cavalcade, a passing parade, in which our own appearance is terribly brief. Best to use it well.
And then there was the hung-over voice behind me that told his pal, ā€œI really didnā€™t have an affair with her, you know.ā€ It was a perfect short story in ten words, and I donā€™t need to know how it ended.