...And Then There Are Guides

(Teachers, Mentors and Guidess Pt.3)

Transitions are crucial times for most students who graduate from systems of formal training. One gets use to the structure, routine and objectives provided by other people to maximize the learning experience. But out in the world, reality meets those who must now establish curriculums for themselves, create their own motivation, or find the kind of assignments they want to explore. Many art school graduates, initially struggle with the difference between creative energies contained within the framework of an art school system, and what to do with them on their own. It took about 4-5 years after graduation before perceptions changed towards my previous instructors. By then I’d met several well-known, established artists who were neighbours or worked near my live-in studio. All of them taught at different schools. Some had big personalities; boom-box voices that carried down the halls. They drank beer and farted, then made aggressive comments in other peoples’ faces. A few were surprisingly shyer than expected and prone to melancholy. Regarded as creative geniuses by many, I found their behaviour at times unimpressive, mean-spirited and uncalled-for, especially when I witnessed one of them trying to publicly ‘out’ another artist he had invited as a guest to his own party. Intimidated by them at first, these artists facilitated an awareness that it was possible to admire and respect the work of artist elders, yet still have reservations about their conduct, and to weigh the price of tolerance. Exposure to notable artists as people, made me realize just how much vital support and structure my college instructors provided and their hard work on everyone’s behalf. Around the same time that I could finally appreciate their efforts, all sources of inspiration, encouragement, or support began to merge into the element of guidance.

The unique characteristic of a guide is arguably, their arrival at significant times in an artist’s life, to offer what is either needed or available for consideration. Quite often, their presence is unexpected, or serendipitous. Encounters with guides can last as little as 10 minutes or years, depending on the issue. Several may come and go for one recurring theme. Guides contribute something of value to the growth and development of an artist throughout their career. In this respect, they can be, but are not restricted to just human beings. Books, other works of art, a spiritual discipline, animals, a thought-provoking experience etc., have the capacity to bring insight and learning to the creative process. As an artist, I receive unbelievably generous acts of guidance from this world. They are too numerous to list. Here are three examples from one main theme in my continuing art education: how to keep going.

1. Bios, journals/diaries, letters of artists and writers.
I work part-time in a library. Books were the earliest guides to literally, plunk themselves down in front of me when a patron returned a copy of Van Gogh’s letters to his brother Theo on my desk. Van Gogh was a good writer. He once considered the ministry as a calling. The details of how he envisioned the world are some of the most moving accounts I’d ever read of an artist describing his life to another person. Van Gogh exchanged letters with Gaugin who, in his own fine writing, chronicled experiences that eventually led him to Tahiti. Rilke’s letters to a young poet revealed a generosity of spirit from an accomplished writer towards an unknown one. I received as gifts or stumbled upon, the journals/diaries of Anaïs Nin, Anne Truitt and Emily Carr which prompted an interest in recording my own experience as an artist. Books written about or by Georgia Okeeffe, Judy Chicago, Louise Nevelson, Pat Steir and especially, those fabulous women artists of the Surrealist Movement– in particular, Remedios Varo, Leonora Carrington and Leonor Fini– have influenced my paintings.

2. A security guard at the AGO.
The first time I submitted work to the AGO art rental gallery was a fiasco. My painting was 4'x6'. The mover I’d hired stood me up. A last minute scramble produced alternate transport. Strapped on top of a Honda with jute string, my work flapped all the way to the gallery. I thought it would fly off any second and whack another vehicle. Upon arrival, I was directed towards an area staffed by an older, well-dressed woman behind a desk. I approached her to confirm the location. She glared at me, shrugged and behaved like it was my fault I didn’t know already. Other artists came through with work. I asked one of them; he thought this was the place. Another woman hurried in, told us to put our work against the walls– then ran out. We all parked our stuff, then waited. I thought to check with the desk clerk to see if we had to sign any forms. She stared at me, then threw up one hand. “Well I don’t know– do you?” The sarcastic voice implied that once again, I asked another stupid question. I went back to gather bubble wrap, silently cursing upon Her Majesty’s Rude Person, painful blisters in really, really uncomfortable places. A security guard breezed through on his way out. He noticed me, came over and looked at my work with genuine interest. “Are you happy with it?” he asked. “Oh I dunno– guess so” I muttered, still rankled by the desk attendant. He paused, studied me kindly and said, “The important thing is how you feel about yourself.” I didn’t think much about his comment then. My painting was declined. But years afterwards, he still pops in and out of memory. People will treat artists either well, poorly, or with total indifference. This includes how they respond to their work. I’ve met snippy, brusque dealers, curators and directors. Yet others have treated me like they themselves would want to be treated. This doesn’t excuse discourtesy in anyone. The security guard reminds me to keep a wider, long-range perspective for both good and bad experiences in order to circumvent, dissolve the effects of demoralizing incidents, and to regain focus after the temporary thrill of success.

3. The Gardens Surrounding my Co-op.
If gardens are a source of guidance, you’d think it’s because of poetic metaphors associated with natural, often unpredictable cycles of life and death– artists can relate to in their own creative process. To some extent, that is true for me. Inspiration, ideas, even the energy to work, comes and goes. Paintings turn out better than expected while others don’t quite succeed no matter how valiant the effort. One canvas might get painted over three times before a final, satisfactory work remains. I’m a member of the Gardening Committee in our co-op; this group includes some very cranky, volatile and peevish individuals, who busy their bodies all over the building grounds. I actually like them all. But despite accolades and awards won every year for our lush, well-tended flowerbeds, we annoy other co-op members and we definitely piss each other off. Dirt, mud and compost track through the lobby and common areas when we shortcut from courtyard to perimeter. Hoses left on 24/7, tools and equipment scattered about– inconvenience the wheelchair tenants. A few of us monitor and stalk, other committee members who notoriously plant, pull or prune in areas assigned to us instead of their care. Shouting matches erupt in meeting rooms, outside by the hose bibs, and once, in front of a resplendent Rose of Sharon. The amount of actual finger pointing is unreal. To the naked eye– so many lovely blooms, interesting plants, healthy bushes and trees. But underneath? All this crap. I think it’s hilarious. When artists debut their work, people also see only finished products. They have no idea of everything that goes into the culmination of work. In spite of the hassles and grief, I still feel it’s worth it.