As an artist, I claim to make what is on my mind. Where does the stuff in my mind come from? Most of us know the standard lines on the origins of ideas… “No man is an island”…ect. “You are what you…eat, read, watch, do, etc., etc”. So now on to other standards originating from sly marketing firms that worm into our thoughts. (And refresh my memory if you recall more of those standard lines that shape our realities….)
An artist makes what is filtered through the mind. What do we notice? Why did we notice it? And why do some observations merit our effort to become transformed into art? In my case, it would be a mixed media art. The transformation of an idea into art applies to all disciplines of art (dance, poetry, music, etc.).
What happens after art is made? Is it validated by being viewed by someone else? Or was the process of making art all that is needed? It depends on the individual artist. Some artists work for years creating bodies of art no one sees. Others work frantically meeting compressed exhibition calendars and thrive on audiences. One approach is not more pure than another. Plus a host of other factors come into play. Money, mostly.
Money and art. This topic would be a blog entry by itself. So I’ll return to the primary reasons for starting today’s blog.
What happens to art after it is made? (This question appears similar to an earlier one but it is very different). Art has the potential to enrich lives long after the artist dies…(or less dramatically… long after an artist stops making art). Some art is handed down from one generation to another including an abbreviated account of the artist’s life. Some inherited art is kept purely for sentimental purposes, which means the odds of long-term preservation fades after one generation. Art is even sold to enthusiastic collectors. And some art is just another commodity… (which returns us to money). It’s a complicated mix contemplated by those who are not confronted by the harsh realities of life. Or perhaps it’s the thoughts of those seeking art as solace to the harsh realities of life.
I wrote a poem about these transitions titled “Everything.” (Read poem and view an odd table setting) Most transitions are mixes of pleasure and confusion….often bittersweet. And now I must go piddle* around in my hobby shack.
* To use triflingly; squander: piddle away one’s time. v.intr. 1. To spend time aimlessly; diddle.