The only constant

I've only made one painting this year. It has been seven months and I have made one painting. At the beginning of the year, I took some time off after a very busy few months at the end of last year. However that was months ago and in another country and I'm home now and all I seem to do is watch my studio gather dust.

That one painting I made was finished three months ago. On a piece of twelve by twelve inch panel, I painted and I hacked and I slashed. I made marks. They were in part angry. That anger is somewhere else now and the painting has been finished for so long that, like my studio, it has become dusty. I have lost my momentum.

A few days ago, I showed that painting, along with the ones from the end of last year, to Steven Heaton – the director of Cross Street Arts where Megan and I had our two-person show in May. It was good to see all the paintings again, however for me it was not a positive experience. I became aware that all of this work, with the exception of three pieces, has been sitting in my store since I made it, slowly sticking to its bubble wrap.

Perhaps this would not be so bad if I had any other shows lined up. Sadly, I have no shows lined up and I am not even looking for any. It is not just my momentum that has diminished, but also my motivation. I simply do not have any. I have all but stopped being an artist at this point. I am not happy.

There is a misconception, held by some, that an artist has to suffer to make art, that a happy artist does not work. (Van Gogh would almost certainly become an example for such a hypothetical 'some'.) It is not true. No one does their best work when they are suffering and, for an artist who has no strict deadlines to adhere to, doing any work at all is unlikely.

I'm going to stop using the third person now, before my sentences become too convoluted. I doubt anyone reading this is under any illusion about whom I am writing.

I have been suffering from depression for almost three quarters of my life. While there have been plenty periods when I have not been affected, it is nevertheless something of an unwanted fellow traveller, a comet caught in my gravity, always to return and cast its shadow. I saw the last bout of it off some years ago and for some time life was going along nicely, yet due to reasons that remain unclear, it returned a year ago. Since then there have been good days and bad days, although no free-from-it days.

My motivation to not just paint, but to do anything, has slipped, reaching close to a flatline. No drive, no ambition, nothing. I'm no longer an artist, just a man with a heavy salted snack food habit, surrounded by a lot of art. It is a situation that needs to end.

So. I'm taking steps. I want to be an artist again. I want to think and act like one. I want to make paintings and get them seen, get them out, out into the public eye. I realised again this week that without an audience it is hard to keep making art. Without some form of recognition, be it a conversation, an email or a comment in a book or online, a feeling of pointlessness can arise. My art is part or me. If no one sees my art, no one sees me.

Seeking validation from others feels like a weakness, the act of the emotionally immature. Perhaps it is, perhaps not. I think of other jobs I've had in the past, before I was an artist. Often in those my work was never complimented, however those jobs tended to be low-paid, and mindless, barely worthy or praise. A well-trained animal could undoubtedly have done them. In jobs where I was employed for my specific skills, I received compliments when I did my work well. Still, those were jobs and the work was simply work, not at all on par with painting. In my paintings I invest more of myself than I have in anything else I've ever made or done, yet when I am painting there is no boss around to compliment me on a job well done. I could as easily be shouting into a hurricane for all the notice the world takes. And why, indeed, should the world take notice? I have no right to attention or praise, no matter how much I may desire it. Without attention or praise, however, the urge to keep going diminishes. Without it, the motivation to keep getting my work out there decreases and without that, the chances of attention or praise grows less. It is a shrinking circle that is hard to break from and in the middle of an extended bout of depression I can see no exit sign. On top of that, I am my own boss and I do not ever seem to be happy with my work. Sometimes, of course, I think too much.

There are days when an endless spiral of negativity are all that I can see. Today, unlike so many blog Fridays this year, I am looking at the negativity, recording it and, in some small way perhaps challenging it.

I've been fighting to keep face for a year now. It has been hard and I am tired. I'm taking steps now. Small ones, admittedly, and maybe not yet steps upwards, yet they are steps. Things change and I know that I too will in time.

Mind the gap

There's been a long gap. This much is entirely evident. Simply looking at the previous entry below will confirm that the gap can almost be measured in months, although the gap in my mind is longer. That latter gap measures just how long it has been since I last felt engaged as an artist. More to the point, it measure how long it has been since I last felt like an artist. It has been quite a while. As I write this, I am resisting the urge to look back over the last few months of entries, to measure the gap.

Last year was a very busy year for me artistically. I created two bodies of work (one of which may potentially be ongoing) and co-created another. There were also quite a few shows. Somehow, in the darkening winter months, as 2012 wound to a close, my train seemed to jump its rails and slowly grind to a halt. Looking around now, those rails don't even seem visible, as if a heavy snow has fallen, blanketing the ground and covering the tracks. Perhaps the tracks weren't even there and in the way of a dream, the track was actually one in a forest and I've wandered away from it and the falling snow has erased my footprints. Lost in a forest, all alone.

Is this some form of artistic block? At present, I doubt it. In my mind a block of that kind is associated with a desire to create but not the inspiration, nor the necessary ability to do so. I could be wrong.

Where I am, instead, is lost in that snow-frosted forest, where no desire to create exists. I wrote earlier that I don't feel much like an artist, when the truth is that I don't feel like much like anything. I am currently a void. This is not a feeling I particularly want to share. Avoid a void. Nonetheless this empty, in between place is where I am.

While I know that making and sharing art is what makes me who I am, it is not something that I can simply force into being. I know full well that there are processes I can engage in, stepping stones I can stumble over, that will take me back to that place, yet even those are too much to ask.

Snow. Void. Blank. Empty. Flat. This is part of the circle, the revolving circle of creation, the snake eating its own tail, revolver eternal. I do not like it here.

A little bit of background

It has been an unusual week of painting. Right at the start of it, there was a revelation of sorts that led me to feeling somewhat more relaxed, perhaps even more philosophical, about my life as an artist. Acting on this feeling, I began three new paintings this week, which marks a definite increase in my recent productivity. I even took the time after the initial painting session for each piece, to sit down and write something about where the piece came from, my intentions for it and my initial feelings about it.

On the first day, I once again addressed the darkness that has been my shadow for the past month. Rather unexpectedly, colour made an appearance. After the initial session, I wrote this:

(work in progress)
Mixed media on panel, 12x12"

"The darkness has often times served as a pretty direct visual representation of the dark emotions within: doubt, fear, depression and so on. Today the darkness seems perhaps transmuted. Still, of course, it is the darkness within, yet somehow now it is also a gestalt, the body in which everything else rests. What does this say about my self image? It suggests that I view myself as an essentially dark person, with a warm, friendly (orange represented) public countenance, that is nonetheless covering dark things. Am I truly thus? In today's representation deep red mixes with, and breaks through, the darkness. It does not feel a red of anger, rather one of love and passion. It is hidden, well below the surface, yet it is clearly there, widespread and of undoubted importance."

Later, while reworking this painting, the red became somewhat submerged, too lessen its impact. I had realised that it was too jarring and while my intent for each painting it to describe a particular instant in my life, at the same time I have not become so obsessed with the idea that I am prepared to sacrifice aesthetics. There are elements of this painting that I am very happy with, as well as some that may require more work. It is resting currently. I will look again at it in a few days.

On the second day, an entirely different set of circumstances presented themselves for posterity. The painting that resulted was a surprise, being something of a departure from what could loosely be called my style. It is more organic in shape, less geometric, and overall feels looser. I wrote this:

(work in progress)
Mixed media on panel, 12x12"

"Overwhelmed. It is a common feeling these days. Too much information, too fast, too many choices. Today, however, it is the overwhelming size and complexity of visa/immigration issues. In particular, I feel small and insignificant, unable to cope with the vast cliff that needs to be negotiated. Today I gave that immense weight to a crushing wave, an avalanche grinding and drowning. Over run by it, I am forced to the ground, torn and battered. The mass of the problem is complex, aswirl, impenetrable. The remorseless, cold press of the world. It is an enormous stew that fills almost everything, there is no way to escape it, nowhere to turn, it is everywhere. It is the immensity of any overwhelming problem, where an objective viewpoint is hard to come by. Seen from below, there is no way out."

Unlike the previous day's painting, which I felt sure of and able to rework into something more suitable to my sensibilities, this piece has remained relatively static. Perhaps this is a reflection of the subject matter. Who, after all, is very good at coping with something overwhelming? I've made numerous tiny tweaks to this, yet there is something unsettling in it. Only time will tell whether or not I can live with this.

On the third day, things did not work out quite as well. 'Isolation' was the idea that was on my mind that day, both it its physical and mental manifestations. I had an idea that seemed an ideal way to represent the theme, however it was too concrete,  conceivably as a reaction to the overly-organic painting of the day before. It drew too heavily upon my graphic designer's eye and as a painting, it simply would not work. I spent a couple of days working at it, trying to resolve its blocky solidity, however as yet I have been unable to find resolution. Presently, there is almost nothing left of the painting and it has been demoted to non-painting status for the time being.

Each of these three paintings were conceived as ways of interpreting three seemingly quite separate feelings and moments, yet they are also quite clearly linked. The forms and colours (at least of these two) are only the most obvious link. Deeper inside both them, and inside myself, I can construct a conversation between the pieces, a web of common thoughts and ideas.

These three new paintings, more than ever seem almost journalistic. I do not know if I can always work like this – the self awareness and concentration needed is great – and even if I find the energy and the ability, spending so much time looking inwards may not be a very healthy way to spend my time.

It has been an unusual week, I wonder what the next one will hold.

Playing to type

Perhaps it is the deepening economic gloom permeating the island upon which I live, where forecasts for that elusive economic fiction of 'growth' tell of the end of an era, perhaps it is the escalation of a system based on fear filling the airwaves and news feeds, or perhaps it is something closer to home, more personal, an emptiness caused by immutable distance, yet whatever the cause, while it proves difficult uncertain, it is undoubtedly affecting something of a dark influence on my paintings presently.

(work in progress)
Mixed media on panel, 12x12"

Every time I lift a hand to work, colours seem somehow wrong, ill-fitting, and so instead I resort to graphite, charcoal, black oil pastel and, occasionally, even black paint. When a colour makes it past this subconscious barrier, it more often than not ends up subsumed within the darkness, chained, barred and covered in black.

While this degree of darkness pulls me increasingly towards the monochromatic, another dark influence makes itself felt, a powerless anger, stoked quietly, internally, that rages against the darknesses both ex- and internal. It flashes out when I work, carving into the working surfaces of each piece, at times frantic slashes that tear up the surface, ripping and shredding, at other times more measured cuts, gouging hard and deep and with a dark certainty.

Earlier this year, words such as "emotional", "intense" and "difficult" were used to describe my work. I was not particularly thrilled by this, feeling that this tied my work to a particular cultural expectation – that of the depressed and unstable artist. I would far rather that my paintings had been allowed to speak for themselves, because to my mind there is in them a transcendent beauty that speaks nothing about emotional intensity or darkness. To bind them in this manner did them a disservice and set a barrier between them and the viewer, allowing them to be neatly fitted into a particular artistic stereotype, without any need to genuinely engage with the work. Not only this, it also seemed potentially off-putting to patrons, few of whom one might expect would want difficult emotions expressed upon their walls.

It is therefore really quite ironic that the work I am presently engaged with is almost a textbook example of "emotional", "intense" and "difficult". I can only imagine how those that previously described my work in those terms might coil back in fear at my current paintings!

Working in this manner was not a conscious plan on my part. As I have touched on more than once, in my pieces I attempt to pin down moments in time, sets of feelings and ideas, using a technique similar to the Surrealist's automatic writing, their "dictation of thought without control of reason". It is therefore unsurprising that in these challenging times, I am making challenging work.

While I know better than to try to force a change upon myself, I dearly hope these challenging times are short, for I would very much like to rediscover colour.