Faith-Keeping

I read endings before a book is finished. If it’s available online, movie reviews with spoiler alerts, results posted for competitions or events– will be consulted prior to any public broadcast. I knew who became the next Iron Chef, if Canada medaled at Figure Skating Championships, the winning designer of Project Runway– days, sometimes weeks in advance. And I just couldn’t stand not knowing whether or not Harry Potter lived. That’s the beauty of a novel, program, sport, or most works of art: they all have conclusions within a foreseeable time frame. This allows some of us who are willfully challenged, who have a low tolerance for suspense to, ah, be pro-active. In the May issue of Artnews, there’s an article written about the longevity of artists who are now 80+ years old. One of them, Carmen Herrera, who recently turned 98, sold her first painting when she was 89 years old– even though she worked steadily for decades. I know little about the lives of these enduring artists; how they were able to sustain their craft for so long, especially those who became seniors well before any recognition or sales. What did they do to support themselves financially and otherwise? Was it hard? Did luck, upbringing, blissful ignorance, connections, or significant others enable them to concentrate on their work, freeing them from basic concerns? (Salvador Dali gave credit to his spouse for most of his career, declaring something to the effect that anyone who wanted to make it as an artist should first marry his wife). Were they determined, obstinate, bad-ass? Was their passion stronger than any adversity encountered? Did they grow up in a creative environment surrounded by artistic activity and nurturing parents? Most artists I know appreciate some indication that they are on the right path. Bits of external validation– acceptance into a gallery or show, monetary gain or recognition, often serve as encouragement. How does an artist maintain faith in their creative process when there’s scant evidence from the world to confirm their efforts? Stalwart artists do exist, who have a fierce, unyielding conviction about their work, who seldom bother to second-guess themselves or their purpose. I doubt a vigorous, prolific artist like Picasso for example, needed much to believe in himself and his art. Generally though, it’s misleading to assume that those who survived and pursued their craft for decades without commercial success, did so with admirable forbearance and stoicism, without questioning their work and what they were doing. Dark nights of the soul visit most artists, stay longer and/or visit more often with some more than others.

Art needs time to develop; faith is inherently part of the creative process already. It involves not being able to predict what will happen but trusting in the process anyway. An idea evolves into a completely different and far more satisfying product than an artist first imagined. A whole day’s effort in the studio turns out rubbish, yet lessons learned from that experience informs future work. Certain kinds of art totally rely on never knowing the outcome because that is the nature of the genre– to follow where it leads. Other factors, also contribute to longevity that have little to do with tenacity. I am neither exceptionally brave or strong-willed. In fact, many insecure, shy, oversensitive, timid, vulnerable artists have maintained careers simply because in the end, there was nothing else left to do but work. Art is multi-purpose, useful, as well as one’s chosen field. Painting has helped me through bereavement and break-ups. It keeps me curious, pre-occupied and rarely bored. It distracts me from problems– makes me forget to worry about sick friends and family. And when no gallery wanted to show my work, when all submissions returned declined, and no income was generated from art for entire years– I still wanted to paint. It had nothing to do with extraordinary courage, perseverance or confidence in my abilities. When professional ambitions produced modest, negligible results, I went back to work because making art makes me happy; the creative process brings joy to life. Painting, after a round of let-downs, even helps with recovery. There are practical ways to keep faith in one’s process such as aid through counseling, support from groups such as other artists and art collectives. In times of uncertainty, knowing that one is not alone often brings relief although caution is needed even here. If we seek resources that will encourage us to continue, it’s important to remember that while misery loves company, misery also wants to keep your company. Share and commiserate in order to carry on.
If I have one suggestion towards faith-keeping? Find another reason for making art other than the source(s) of disappointment or anxiety. Do it because if you don’t, you’ll go nuts, because you feel better for doing it, because you have no choice– the damn thing won’t leave you alone. However, some artists sustain faith... because they actually have one. Those with religious backgrounds, who engage in spiritual disciplines, tend to regard their creative work as part/extension of that practice. It exists within a frame of reference, a context that also includes a way of life. In that respect, what happens in terms of how work is or isn’t received, has less significance than greater meaning on the whole. That whole usually involves a relationship with a Divine Presence– call it God, the Goddess, Buddha, or Great Mystery etc. It isn’t always about the career. As part of a sacred journey, making art becomes a form of praise.
This year, I had 3 poems published in The Nashwaak Review, a journal that comes out of St.Thomas University. Last time any of my writing was accepted for publication was 6 years ago. ‘The drought is over!' I shouted to friends. They thought the plumbing had been shut off my unit for repairs and water finally came back on. As a visual artist, it can take me 6+ years to complete one project series. That’s fine; I have a slow, detailed style– I even re-work pieces, years after they were originally thought finished. But 6 years of silence for my writing was excruciating. It felt outrageous to wait so long for exposure because poems are, well, so– so, short, so brief, compared to the labour required in painting. (Of course, I also discovered that it can take 6+ years to resolve one poem in a satisfactory way, but that’s another indignation I won’t go into). I don’t know how Carmen Herrera did it. But if she is now 98, then she is living proof that it isn’t over until it’s over.