Love Me, Love the Art PT.2

My friend Jocelyn has reservations about what she calls my "blue period" paintings (and I'm not even a huge Picasso fan!). That's quite fine by me. I just love her for her banana bread and big warm heart--not necessarily in that order. Besides, I have a coterie of artist friends and colleagues who do recognize and extoll the merits of those dark works. Some even agree with her (damn their eyes). By the time I lived in an artist community, joined art groups, met and made friends with other artists at shows, the limited support from those who were unable or didn't know how to provide it, mattered less and less. Ironically, I was able to relate to them in ways that made me appreciate and enjoy what I liked most about them in the first place. I know the reverse also happens. Some artists, who find sustenance for themselves and their work, notice the acute absence in other parts of their lives. They consider distance, withdrawl, or termination of formerly significant relationships. Energy spent towards justification, defense and explanation of choices made to facilitate art, is met with constant belligerence, undermining or opposition; the contrast hard to ignore. But then, I also remember one artist who finally broke down and revealed to her husband how she struggled to define her own personal vision while living with his attitude. A previously reluctant support, his genuine love and concern won out in unexpected displays of compassion and respect. I think he builds her shipping crates...

I used a "list" of people I contacted in order of preferential treatment. Number 1 was always my sister. Any luck, no matter how puny--from a small exhibition grant or artist fee, to the sale of my first large painting--she was well worth the long distance call to Vancouver, just to guarantee myself a positive reaction. When I reached the unavoidable person whose words said "congratulations" but voice betrayed scepticism about how much work had to be done for so little gain--it was okay. I was simply giving news. They could still have doubts, projections or unresolved issues that had little to do with me. Except by then, I was bundled in a nice, fat, wad of joyful reception I could carry on with, now that all the people before them already gave me what I wanted and needed.

Fast forward to my parents who arrive at my present apartment, to bring receipts so I can fill out their income taxes. A large painting in progress, of birds flying past a bonsai, rests on the wall I use for workspace. My mum looks at it thoughtfully, then sits on the stool in front of it, facing the room. My Dad enters, stamps on the rug and goes straight to a table. He dumps papers, bills. We talk about the taxes. I rise to fetch stamps from the bedroom. Dad turns and notices the painting. "Hey!" he exclaims, "this is pretty good." Mum, still gazing ahead, replies "Of course" like she knew all along something my father only discovered now. This, from the woman, who at my first solo show, stood in front of a 4 x 6ft. canvas and earnestly suggested the following:

"If somebody only wants this part of your painting, you could just take scissors and cut a piece out for them. They can pay you, fold it in half, and stick it under their armpit when they leave. Easy."

Both my poor, bewildered parents have been rich sources of validation without even trying. I just love it when they holler at each other in Chinese over who knew I had talent first, despite years of covert hints about secretarial school. I recall fondly my mother's toothache expressions whenever I'd visit them to use their shower. Once, when I was twelve, she came into my room and noticed my drawing tacked above the bed. "Ah!" she cried. "That really looks like a lobster--I'd eat it!" In spite of their dismay and sincere alarm at my baffling predilection for hovels, neither of my parents ever stood in the way of my development as an artist. I am more grateful to them for this than they will ever know. Last year, my father in a reflective mood, pondered aloud, his children's future. He discussed each of us, our prospects for survival, after his "immigration" (his euphemism for death). He decided he wasn't too worried about me because he thought I could take care of myself. "Even though I'm an artist?" I teased. "No, but you're happy," he shrugged and mimed his own version of the toothache. (Mum's is better; she holds it longer.)

Love Me, Love the Art PT.1

There are dynasties in film, music, art etc., where generations of one family engaged in the same artform. I think of the Barrymore and Redgrave actors, the McGarrigle/Wainwright musicians, the Bronte sisters, the Pratts and their artist offspring. It's easy to imagine these households filled with the crackle and spit produced by creative energy, despite whatever tension, rivalry and demons existed as well. True, in families with a history of art, the opposite also happens; resistance and dissuasion occurs from parents who want to protect their children from their own unstable, impecunious, and difficult experiences. Often, one or both parents gave up their art or never resolved how to integrate it with lowered expectations, into their chosen lives. But like a few children in the Harry Potter books where, once in a while, wizards emerge with no legacy of magic in their family--an artist comes forward from a lineage of dentists, accountants or hockey players.

An environment where significant others respect, support and understand your need to be an artist is a blessing, in particular, during stressful, developmental, uncertain or fallow stages. Parents, partners, children, friends, who champion us, whether or not our paintings tank--yet still recognize the importance of art-making to our well-being-- give us freedom and space to fail, grow and improve as artists. Great to have them share in our triumphs and victories too, no matter how small. Not everyone has or has had this. In a perfect world, loved ones would squeal with delight and offer us money when they discover our committment to art. Committment is the operative word. Everyone's fine with a hobby pursuit. However, when someone is dedicated to art; that's different. It's another relationship just as strong and important as any close personal bond. In reality, for some artists--it is the primary relationship whether that's right, wrong, healthy or not. Our loved ones will have to endure divided time, loyalty and attention. There will be anywhere from lifestyle, personality, or value changes. Money could be a bitch.

The best support may be the most difficult to give; leaving an artist alone so they can work in peace. In couples, very real practical concerns arise from day to day living: who becomes the primary wage earner, who delays or sacrifices their own dreams in order to generate income so everyone can eat and one artist can work? In spite of good faith and planning, these arrangements don't always work out to the satisfaction of everyone. What takes place when the reaction is alarm, dismay or grudging but hardly enthusiastic tolerance? Do the people you live with, spend time and the rest of your life with--have to love your work as well? Personally, my nearest and dearest are welcome to whatever they truly think and feel about my art as long as they don't interfere with it. Interference means not just repeated, blatant sabotage and derision of efforts, or campaigns to emphasize that no one wants or needs the art produced. It also involves unsolicited motivational coaching from those who are busy-bodily determined to insinuate themselves in a position of unwanted influence where the art is concerned, who may have an agenda of their own for doing so. Non-consensual mentorship that feels more like intrusion and distraction rather than help. (Thankfully, I have none of these problems at present; one advantage of ageing). Often, it's not the actual art our people have concerns about. It's easy to confuse the work with its undertaking. The problem lies in what is demanded from us, that either feels exclusive to others, or provokes issues about a dormant, inactive creative expression of their own, or on the surface, seems more trouble than it's worth.

I come from immigrant parents who escaped a communist country. When I decided to be an artist, my Mum and Dad had finally reached middle class after years of hard work as an offset printer and garment worker respectively. In my childhood, they ran a diner in a small Ontario town. The Little Current Lunch had almost no business during winter. There were 5 of us; we were poor. I rented my first studio after art college. I couldn't afford a separate residence so I lived in the warehouse space. The first time my parents saw my loft was the last time they wanted to see any commercial/industrial unit where I lived. For 14 unspoken years, they preferred to either pick me up or drop me off, always at an entrance, across the street or near a corner. My father was dumbstruck. My mother kept muttering "Aiyya!" which is the Chinese expletive of choice for anything to do with pain, astonishment, revulsion, nervous exhaustion--you name it. The studio had no kitchen, bathroom or plumbing. Paint chipped off the rotted window frames. I thought it was so exciting, adventuresome. My mother grimaced and stepped around piles of debris and styrofoam meal tubs, swept up by someone's token gesture of a cleaning. My father just stood there, looking around the room. When he turned to address me, it was and still is, the only time I've ever seen him about to cry. He said quietly, "I think you got a hard time." Another artist once told me about this man she dated. He was Armenian. When he first viewed her studio, he too, stared around, noted the only plumbing fixture (a bathtub), exposed pipes tracking the ceiling, the kettledrum radiator, and stained walls. How functions that normally had separate rooms for them were all done in one open space. "We don't even live like this in Armenia," he whispered. It's hard for those who struggled to leave an impoverished lifestyle to comprehend why anyone would deliberately choose one, especially if they have enough resources for better options. The explanation that you "need" this seems strange, confusing, if not madness. Very often, what appears to be a conservative, guarded response to our life choice as artists, disguises an honest concern for our health, safety and welfare.

Residence though, in that initial warehouse taught me fast, how little it took to actually feel supported. A building, replete with other artists involved in their craft, was encouragement istself. Hell, I didn't even need to talk much with any of them; their presence alone was enough. Many of us habitually nodded and grunt-greeted each other in the halls or chatted briefly while we emptied slops at the filthy common sink--and that was it! I thrived on mere whiffs of linseed oil and turpentine, wafting down to my unit from the artist 2 doors over. Later some of us did exchange studio visits and became friends... to be continued