March 5, 2005 at 8:55 AM

“…to thine own self be true.” --Shakespeare

I made the mistake of assuming I actually knew something about the determining factors that qualify something as being "good". Art, for instance, was an area in which I believed myself to have discriminating taste. Music is also an area in which I feel confident in my ability to hear all the sounds coming from my instrument and tell if they are acceptable or not. But what if... what if I'm actually clueless? So many people think they have good taste when they are actually blind to the fact that their work is amateur. So, when I went to pick up my rejected color pencil from the local juried art show, was it simply bitterness that prompted me to huddle with the other rejected artists at the reception and voice my complaints? I worry that this was the case, but a deeper instinct tells me that this was simply not true. Besides, after a glass of reception wine, everything makes much more sense.

Okay, so the sheep I drew using a golden spiral constructed with the Fibonacci sequence didn't go over. However, my ravens and Mount Redoubt hung on the wall, next to a Jackson Pollock wanna-be that took Honorable Mention. My drawing looked naked there under the light, and I could see places where it fell slightly short of what I had intended. But I also remember the day that I had finished it, sitting on the porch in the late afternoon glare. It was one of those rare warm Alaskan summer days, and the scent of warm leaves and earth drifted on the breeze. I had been struggling with the drawing for a couple of weeks, but under the influence of that day, and the good techno music drumming in my headphones, I hit a groove. The pencils rhythmically and effortlessly etched under the bright sunlight, creating their own palette of muted blues and greys. For a brief space of time, I had it. It’s the zone that musicians refer to when they are in a state beyond concentration and labor, when the instrument becomes an extension of themselves, and the music identifies their souls. What I had when I was finished held a glimpse of the true self that I was intended to be. I was happy with it--and that’s saying something. It makes me shudder to think about it, what kind of people we would all be if we weren’t shackled by these imperfections. I’m sad that such times of uninhibited expression in my life are so rare.

They hired a judge from New York and made a point to punctuate it on the cover of the shoddy, last-minute program. I took a few more moments to honestly evaluate the juror’s picks before calling it a night. His choices consisted of the following: a hateful looking horse with little depth or attention to detail, an equally shabby painting of a distressed old woman with heavy purple wrinkles, the previously mentioned Pollock rip-off, some metallic, clunky sculptures, and a digital cartoon creation with a heavy political agenda. I’m beginning to understand the mind of the judge. He’s just not from here. He doesn’t understand. We are not on the same page, he and I. Anyone who would live in New York City would not relate to a girl who purposely chose to live far away from there.

There at the art reception, I did happen to meet one artist--a young man whose work seems to hold great potential--who took fourth place for a large, painting with loose brushstrokes, called “Rhythm and Blues.” His eyes were bright and clear. I’m glad he was chosen for something at least; his work was the best in the room. I hope he continues to go at it, and not let the Man get him down. The best artists draw from that spot deep within that cannot be influenced or changed by others; they are unafraid to represent themselves, point blank, in the face of critical and unsympathetic eyes. It is wise to believe that the opinions of critics are often afflicted, biased, and clouded.

Take any opinion with a grain of salt, that’s my advice for the day.

From Jim W. Miller
Posted on March 5, 2005 at 9:23 AM

You're painting Fibonacci sheep too? I'm painting them compulsively, and having dreams about alien landing strips. Wow.

From Emily Grossman
Posted on March 5, 2005 at 9:37 AM

Listening to George again? Late night radio is food for great inspiration!

From Scott 68
Posted on March 6, 2005 at 3:14 PM

remember beauty is in the eye of the beer holder

This entry has been archived and is no longer accepting comments.