It’s not only my creativity that’s missing right now, it’s also my desire to do anything at all. All I have to show for the past week are scattered thoughts and mounting frustrations. I know precisely how to confront my shortcomings when it comes to my artistic spirit: the remedy is simply to begin, accepting that the initial period may feel like an onerous task. Once I get the ball rolling, that motion usually spurs me on, inspiring me so the process no longer feels quite so much like a chore. “Chore” is a word I’m sure most artists loathe, and perhaps this isn’t a problem for true artists. At times I feel like a fraud. I call myself an artist, yet for much of the day I fail to act like one. I even hesitate to use the term ‘artist’ and often prefer to describe myself as a picture painter. There is something a little pompous about calling yourself an ‘artist,’ since almost everyone expresses some form of creativity. That might be snapping photos with a phone or using Photoshop to assemble a digital piece. Art exists all around us and is deeply rooted in people’s psyches. I don’t want to sound like Sigmund, but much artistic ability is obscured by pop culture, consumerism, mainstream media, the education system, and by elements lodged in everyone’s subconscious to some degree.
Todays modern tedious lives have arrived at a point where art and religions are failing, both collectively and at the level of the individual. The therapeutic highs once found through faith and ritual have been replaced by the brief, consumable thrills of watching Madonna perform or the latest Hollywood spectacle. Art is often framed as the capacity to define one’s work in rational terms, to reduce feeling and process to tidy explanations. All too frequently it becomes more words than the piece deserves, presented in a jumble of long, fancy literature that can feel more like decoration than insight.
I envy those who can write about their work with the cool, factual detachment of a newspaper column; I wish I could present my practice with that same composed clarity. But the truth is I’m not on a quest to discover the meaning of life or to prove the existence of love through a painting. I make what appeals to me, and sometimes that means drawing inspiration from the works of other “artists.” There will never be room in me for forcing a signature style as an end in itself. I used to long for that recognition — to have people say, “That looks like a Saville.” Now I would much rather they say, “I like that. That appeals to me.”
Experimentation plays such a crucial role in my practice. I resist being limited in my ability to create what I enjoy, to explore materials, subjects and approaches without being boxed in by expectation. And, let’s be honest, many styles have already been bought and sold; trends are commodified and circulated until they feel exhausted. I prefer the freedom to follow what intrigues me, to keep making work that satisfies rather than conforming to a market or a predetermined signature.
Another factor is that I don’t drink anymore. This change was a double-edged sword, which of course is what alcohol tends to be across the board, and it doesn’t discriminate when it comes to those working in creative fields. It used to help me write and to help me paint — even to summon the courage to put brush to canvas — but there is always a downside to grog. Too often it proved a curse rather than a cure. The more I drank, the more my art suffered: what began as an enjoyable, romantic process frequently ended in compromised work and regret. Dealing with a hangover and then taking a second, clearer look at what I’d made the next day is an experience no one should have to endure repeatedly. I won’t pretend this is merely an excuse, but at this early stage of sobriety I’m not inclined to pile on unnecessary restrictions. My sobriety comes first.