Book Discussion--Art and Fear

Essential Reading for Artists: Art and Fear
Why I believe every artist should read "Art and Fear" at least once.

The little 134-page book Art and Fear: Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking written by David Bayles and Ted Orland is one of those books you want to tell everyone you know to read. It deserves cult status among artists, to be passed from hand to hand as a well-read copy that every new reader devours (though you may find it hard to lend out your copy and instead might just let your friends dip into it when they visit!).

Why Should You Read "Art and Fear"?
Why do I believe Art and Fear is such a good book? Because it gets straight to the issues that matter so much and hinder our development as artists, such as why you’re not painting, why so many people give up painting, the gap between the potential of a canvas and what you produce, the belief that talent is essential.

Art and Fear is not written specifically for painters, but for any creative field, whether you’re a writer, musician, or fine artist. But despite this a painter will feels as if it’s talking directly to them, addressing issues painters have. It’s written in a straightforward, no-nonsense, entertaining manner (and totally lacks psycho-babble or high artspeak).

Who Wrote "Art and Fear"?
The authors, David Bayles and Ted Orland, are both artists (actually, they describe themselves as “working artists”; an interesting and important distinction from just an "artist" you come to appreciate as you read "Art and Fear"!). They have drawn their observations from personal experience. They say in the introduction: “Making art is a common and intimately human activity, filled with the perils (and rewards) that accompany any worthwhile effort. The difficulties artmakers face are not remote and heroic, but universal and familiar. … This book is about what it feels like to sit in your studio … trying to do the work you need to do.”

Decide For Yourself: Some Quotes from "Art and Fear"
Art and Fear has truly been an inspiration to me and my much-marked and underlined copy lives among the pile of books and magazines I’m currently reading. The selection of quotes below are among my favourites, and give but a taster of the book.

”Artmaking involves skills that can be learned. The conventional wisdom here is that while ‘craft’ can be taught, ‘art’ remains a magical gift bestowed only by the gods. Not so.” Art and Fear, page 3.

”Even talent is rarely indistinguishable, over the long run, from perseverance and lots of hard work.” Art and Fear, page 3.

”The function of the overwhelming majority of your artwork is simply to teach you how to make the small fraction of your artwork that soars.” Art and Fear, page 5.

”To all viewers but yourself, what matters is the product: the finished artwork. To you, and you along, what matters is the process.” Art and Fear, page 5.

”You learn how to make your work by making your work … art you care about -- and lots of it!” Art and Fear, page 6.

”What separates artists from ex-artists is that those who challenge their fears continue; those who don’t, quit.” Art and Fear, page 14.

”Most artists don’t daydream about making great art --- they daydream about having made great art.” Art and Fear, page 17.

”The artist’s life is frustrating not because the passage is slow, but because he imagines it to be fast.” Art and Fear, page 17.

And that’s but a small selection of the bits I’ve got underlined in the first 20 pages .. and the book goes on for 100 more!

Art and Fear by David Bayles and Ted Orland is published under their own imprint, Image Continuum Press, ISBN 0-9614547-3-3. The copy I got was from the 16th printing. I’m sure there will be many more as new artists discover this book and make it part of what keeps them going.

Art of the Steal

Sure makes you think about the art world differently!

Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter and Spring

We used the concept of change and the simple act of making a calligraphic mark as an entry into simple painting and drawing. Although we did not use the tail of a cat, there were marks made with human hair and sticks based on simple haiku.

Waste Land (2010) - Official Trailer [HD]

Song of the Lark

Song of the Lark by Laura Munson

When I was twenty, I had a summer internship at the Art Institute of Chicago in their Prints and Drawings department. In the afternoons, we’d assist visitors who wanted to view certain works of art in the by-appointment public gallery, and in the morning…we had the place all to ourselves. There were five of us, all wanna-be one day art historians, and about as many Phd curators who were happy to stop what they were doing and answer questions. So our days began in a vault full of stacks and stacks of boxes in alphabetical order. You name it—if there was a famous artist who put writing implement to paper, they very probably had a piece in this collection. Rembrandt. Rothko. Mary Cassatt. Matisse. Michelangelo. DaVinci. It was absolute manna, so typical of Chicago’s long line of artistic patronage. They had Cezanne’s sketchbook, for Lord’s sake. With his grocery list and his son’s drawings in the margins. I loved those mornings.

I’d spent the last school year in Florence, Italy after all, feasting on the Renaissance. I was in a place of artistic glut. Dizzied by an embarrassment of riches in the way of visual art and inspiration. So it was no small mistake that in that year, I decided to write a novel. Just as an experiment. I didn’t tell anybody. I didn’t consider myself a writer. I considered myself an artistic person who wasn’t good enough to be an actual artist, so I’d be a champion of artists. It seemed more practical. More the sort of thing my North Shore parents and friends could relate to. More the sort of thing I’d been raised for. Maybe I’d work at Sotheby’s. Maybe I’d own an art gallery. Maybe I’d go back to school and get my Phd and become a museum curator. The only thing was…none of those prospects really appealed to me. Not when I was sitting in that vault deciding between Mary Cassatt’s aquatints and Matisse’s Jazz book.

Sometimes, I’d bring my journal in there and just write, feeling the hearts and passion play of those artists throbbing in my body. I was writing more and more, all about this girl who was a painter, living on an island in Greece, who had fled her life of higher education and societal expectation. The first line of that first book was “Claire sat on her patio wondering what to paint.” I was sitting in that vault, twenty, wondering who I really wanted to be. Who I really was. I felt trapped by my future. I was angry. And lucky for me, I was restless.

Each day at lunch, I would shove down a sandwich and head up to the main galleries of the museum, and I would wander them, memorizing their placement so that my emotions would surge in anticipation around each corner. I knew those galleries. I loved those galleries. But there was one painting that took my breath away, quite literally, every time. The Song of the Lark by Jules Breton.

The image is of a peasant girl, barefoot on a dirt road, holding a sickle in her hand, looking skyward as a bird flies by, the sun low in the sky. I was that girl. My true self was stuck in the wheel society had carved for me. Only mine was in no way the life of the peasant. Quite the opposite. Somehow though, I related with this girl. I was made of dreams that quite possibly would never come true too. And, like the girl, I was going to do something about it. There was no way that girl would be on that road in that peasant’s skirt and bare feet much longer, holding that sickle in that fist. She was going places. Probably that very night she was going to run away from home and hop on a horse going west. I’d follow her. What kind of lie was I telling myself? I wasn’t the person behind the art. I was the artist. I had things I wanted to put down on paper. Only they were words. So I spent that summer writing that novel in every free speck of time I had. And I haven’t stopped since.

Whenever I return to Chicago, I make a point, like a pilgrimage, of going to the Art Institute and standing before The Song of the Lark. It still takes my breath away; it still gives me chills. But the way I have come to look at it surprises me. Now I see something different in the girl. She did not leave. She’s still there. Another day in the field. She is not free. But the bird…the bird is free. And she’s raising that sickle, not against her lot in life, but against that bird. Against that freedom she will not know. Her fingers are drawn up like a fighter in both hands. Her mouth is slack like she’s been sucker punched. She is bound by that painting to which Jules Breton committed her. Where she once was my heroine, she now smacks as a willful slave. I am sorry for her, and I am sort of ashamed of her.

That’s what art does when it’s true. It’s alive in the heart. And we make it our own. At least I do, with this painting of this girl. I have needed to. I have needed to see that I have grown out of rebellion and into freedom. She is my reminder. The last time I went, in fact, I could barely look her in the eye, for all her victimhood. She couldn’t leave. You can always leave, I wanted to shout. No matter what your lot is in life. You can. And coming from privilege doesn’t necessarily make it any easier. So much to lose… But in the end, I learned that I am not bound by the painting that was painted for me. I am only bound by myself. I left that bondage, and I wrote and I am not that girl in the painting. I am, dare I say, the lark.

The beauty of it is that I’m sure there is a twenty year old girl somewhere, probably in Chicago, who comes to this painting and sees her fight and sees her flight and realizes it, in part, because of this girl’s raised fist and sickle. And maybe she will get on the horse and get out of town. Or maybe she will stay and paint her own painting of herself right where she lives, because that is possible too. That is perhaps more than I had the guts for.

And yes, maybe she will return one day, the fight out of her, and relate more to the bird in the sky. I hope that for her. I hope that we grow in the seasons of our life and that in the deliberate act of moving through them, we find ourselves with new pilgrimages to take and new ways to see.

Our City Dreams