Backstory: there’s a virtual gallery opening today that I’d wanted to attend, at a specific time. I have artwork in this show, I’m proud of the work, and I love the gallery.
I also am lucky enough in the midst of a pandemic to *have a FT job with benefits*. It’s nearing the end of the year. My industry is ‘essential’ and we have products we need to get made and shipped ASAP. No one wants to cut short their paid Thanksgiving holiday next week, so we’re working extra hours now.
That means I cannot get out of working on a Saturday, this Saturday, all day this Saturday.
“Oh, that’s okay,” I can hear someone say. “You could just Zoom call at the appointed time from work!”
Nope. When I’m at work, my phone is in my locker, my breaks do not coincide with Gallery Time, and recording an unsanctioned Zoom call on company property is a direct violation of my contract. I know because I already asked.
What’s so important about this call-in? The gallery would like the artists to introduce themselves, and give a brief explanation about their work.
Which *is* important, in certain ways.
Enough so that I’ll do it here: “Hi. I’m Marian. I weld things. When I’m not doing that, I might be making very strange books out of everything but paper. I also make Covid19 masks.”
“The fiber art pop-up book below was made out of fabric, beads, string, and magnets, and was inspired by night-time airplane rides over cities. There is also snarky social commentary if you look closely enough.”
I will now let non-artists into a few secrets about the whole Explaining Ourselves routine.
- Most of the time, when artists do it, we are trying to get money from the people to whom we are explaining. Grants, gallery pitches, online catalog copy, Masters and Doctorate defenses…all boil down to: “If you like what you see, here is how you can buy it or more stuff like it. Welcome to my Ted Talk.”
- We might be insulting your intelligence or lack thereof. We’re human. You can’t just wave a big target around and *not* expect some of us to zing you for fun. Don’t trust our explanations. “Where do you get your ideas?” “I write away for them from a subscription service in [insert funny town name here].”
- We’re stalling because we have *no idea* what we’re doing, only that it’s art and doing it this way feels right to us. But you’ve put us on the spot. Many of us have learned to muddle through the appropriate ArtSpeak we learned from college, other artists, and/or art magazines. On the inside, many of us are silently praying you’ll be satisfied with the depth and luminosity of our explanation, maybe give us money (see Point 1), and go away so we can go make more art. We are all in awe of artists like Jasper Johns, who don’t like to explain themselves or their art.
- Some of us, alas, have drunk the Flavor-Aid poison punch and we have fallen so much for our own bullshit explanations that we have started to believe them. It’s seductive, speaking to an enthusiastic crowd of fans. But it is not our art, and it can often begin to poison our art. I always try to gently steer young artists (who might believe this aspect of art is the most noteworthy) toward the late great Neil Peart and the Rush song ‘Limelight’.
- Sometimes, we find ways our art can bridge gaps and maybe change the world. The art means Something now, and we will haul ourselves in front of crowds and cameras to testify about it. That’s also a thrill. But it can lead to cutting corners and treating the art as merely a vehicle for the idea. “Who cares if it’s sloppy work, I’m getting my message out!”
I know that feeling. The shaking uplift, the passion in the voice as we drive home the truth behind this thing we’ve made. People nodding. People’s faces lighting up as they make some connection to our artwork.
But I also don’t trust that feeling. Sometimes, for me, it can get attached to substandard pieces of art. Instead of buying into my hype and excusing my piece’s flaws, I know I can only give myself a quiet nod and a metaphorical pat on the back…before I design a better version, or something else entirely.
And that’s why *I* don’t really like to talk about my artwork, and why these blog posts can be excruciating sometimes.
I hope you enjoy the art.