Demystify Your Art Making

As an art student, I fell in love with Cezanne’s brushstrokes.

Demystify your art making, at least for the sake of getting it done. Whether your art be painting, drawing, sculpting, writing, singing, acting, dress making, crochet, needlepoint, woodwork, bread baking, stenciling, scrapbooking, cello playing, guitar strumming, furniture restoration, hair cutting, stand-up comedy, or collage.

I will create something like a parable, except my protagonist is a true historical figure, and the moral may be murky, if existent at all. But the thing is, the accepted cultural narrative, i.e., art history as we know it, depends on an outcome other than what this “parable” offers. Nonetheless, here’s a brief, alternative, anti-art history:

Suppose the painter Paul Cezanne (pronounced say-‘zon, or says-‘awnh, if you’re being snooty), having returned to the French countryside after a stint in Paris, decided to pursue other things besides painting. In Paris, he’d hung out with important painters and gained valuable artistic insights, but feeling himself more a rustic, he followed his heart back to the provincial environs of his youth. He told himself he’d paint mountains and forests, rock quarries and the Mediterranean Sea.  His intentions were good. But when he got there, a procrastination set in–one from which he’d never fully recover.

It started as anxiety: a lurking fear that he’d fail to achieve what those great Parisian painters had achieved. What’s left for me to discover, he often wondered. He knew he should weather this anxiety and get to work anyway, but being of a passive temperament, he often let it get the best of him. And in those days, there were no anti-anxiety meds to ease the mind. A prescription for Lexapro might’ve made all the difference. Instead, he sipped coffee all day, willfully blinding himself to the exacerbatory effects of caffeine on his anxiety. By late afternoon, he’d be a jittery wreck, unable to paint, unable to do anything thing but laze about Pontoise, growing bitterer by the hour, mean-mugging the villagers who hadn’t grasped the great destiny that was meant to be his. How could they? But he afforded them no grace. He’d escape to the woods, taking long walks on old wagon roads, cursing life for not delivering on its promise of artistic renown, carrying his sketchbook but drawing nothing. I’ll figure things out eventually, he’d think.

Soon, however, he afforded himself no grace, either. He became quite the wallower in self-pity. What had gone wrong? He was supposed to be the father of some great art movement, but he was merely the son of a banker, living off a great inheritance, producing no art. His palette grew dusty, his brushes stained and stiff with inactivity. In the village, he wasn’t even known to be an artist anymore. All he was was the son of Monsieur Cezanne, the deceased banker. At one point, local officials wanted him to run for office, thinking he was somehow qualified because his father had been a prominent citizen back in Aix. But Paul knew he wasn’t the public service type, so he graciously denied their request, though they plied him with brandy and rare tobacco. To be honest, he did consider it; it would be a level of prominence, after all. They were standing around him in the courthouse basement, the brandy working its intoxication, the conversation flowing, and he thought maybe, just maybe. But the next morning, in the grip of a pulsing headache, he remembered he was supposed to be an artist, and he was just foolish enough to believe it might still happen. He stood by his original decision not to run for office.

This parable is starting to run thin. Here’s the point: if the real Paul Cezanne had had any kind of sense of the greatness that was to come, he might’ve gotten nothing done. If he’d thought he might one day be referred to as the Father of Modern Art, then there may have never been a series of paintings of Mont Sainte-Victoire, or of his influential bather scenes. Card players, Madame Cezanne, still-lifes–so many monumental works we wouldn’t have. He would’ve sabotaged his own greatness. That mantle–Father of Modern Art (who could live under that expectation?!)–would’ve gone to someone else.

The point behind the point: demystify your art making. Demystify your writing. Demystify your singing. Demystify your acting. Demystify your whatever. Do it all for the joy of doing it, or for your obsession with it. Any reason is better than doing it because you think it will one day lead to greatness. If you do it because you think it will one day lead to greatness, then not only will you probably fall short, but you’ll be letting down our species by wielding such a shallow motive.

Maybe greatness is the wrong word, because art deserves the pursuit of greatness. Striving to make great art is worthwhile, but striving to have art be proof of your own greatness–that’s the shallow part, the seedy part. I’m confident in saying that the real Cezanne pursued greatness in art, but not greatness through art. I suspect he didn’t care about personal fame at all.

Alan D. Tucker
Content Writer,
Essayist, & Novelist

Longboard Dad

People in Nashville don’t expect to see a grown man on a skateboard, at least not in the suburbs. That’s what I deduced on a recent outing with my boys. They had their bikes and I had my longboard (which is exactly what it sounds like, for those unfamiliar with skater lingo), and we pushed and pedaled around the parking lots and walking track of my oldest son’s school for a couple of hours. The clear, cool day brought out other people, too, so we had a little company: walking middle-aged couples (probably close to my age, actually); a teenage kid blasting hip-hop in his headphones and doing basketball moves with no ball; a man giving his daughter a driving lesson. The basketball kid paid us no mind, and the father giving driving lessons checked to make sure we’d be in a different part of the parking lot, but the walking couples stared. Rudely stared. Some said hi, but others had this bemused look, like they thought I was kidding about being a longboard dad, or that any moment I might break into a Rodney Mullen street routine. It got a little awkward.

I’m jealous of two kinds of people: really tall people, and people who don’t care what anyone thinks of them. As hard as I try, when someone outright stares at me, I can’t ignore it. I may not look at them, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel their eyes burning whichever side of me happens to be facing them.

The longboard stayed, of course, because thankfully I’m too stubborn to let a little awkwardness deter me. But it would be nice if the stigma of skateboarding being only a thing for kids would go away. I can’t see why it’s any less a legitimate activity than riding a bike.

Anyway, that experience has me thinking about the awkwardness and vulnerability artists undergo for the sake of their work. It’s risky to take something you created and place it in front of others. It’s risky because an artist’s work is built from the raw materials of his own life; to put it simply, it’s intimate. The best artists hold nothing back. It terrifies me to think of holding nothing back. Yet to be honest and to be good, artistically speaking, that stuff has to come out. Like a longboard.

Alan D. Tucker
Content Writer, Essayist, & Novelist

Invisible Man, Part 2: Clarifications

Photograph from Liu Bolin’s Invisible Man series.

Self-delusion came up in Monday’s post on being invisible. For clarification’s sake, I don’t believe anyone, except maybe the clinically insane, thinks they’re actually invisible, as in no one can see them standing there. Our bodies are the ever-present vessels of us–without them, we are not. What I mean by invisible, rather, as was probably obvious, is that one’s genuine self never breaks the surface. Glimpses are caught now and again, as when a would-be leviathan rises close enough to the water’s surface that a massive dark form is detected, but then it retreats back into the depths so suddenly it leaves the observer wondering whether he saw anything at all.

Then there are those moments that remind the invisible of their state–those moments that startle them into the awareness that they’re largely unknown by others. Again, for clarification, I’m not speaking of mere anonymity. The overwhelming majority of us are anonymous with respect to the wide world in which we live. The moments I’m referring to, the ones that startle us, do so because they occur in the presence of those we assume really know us: parents, siblings, lifelong friends, et cetera. Sure, they know us superficially–they know our relation to them, major life events we’ve undergone, and perhaps a few of our general interests. But a view to the inner workings is translucent at best, like stained glass, permitting only a dulled (but colorful) light, and allowing only the most basic evidence of forms.

Something else I mentioned Monday was that the artist is obligated to believe in his inner world. To elaborate, he can’t dismiss it as being less important, or less concrete, metaphysically speaking, than the outer world, where commerce happens. Since art is forever valid to the artist and the art lover, it’s not a dismissible commodity to be abandoned in the face of budget cuts, or to be relegated to the status of prettification; it shares in the essence of anything and everything that makes life worthwhile. Even what doesn’t reveal itself in the physical world–that which is pure imagination–is valid if it can be included in art, because art does reveal itself in the physical world. It is the physical manifestation of the inner world, and is therefore indispensable. (Forgive my tendency to lump the artist in with the invisible. The ranks of the invisible are not limited to artists, but I have no doubt the artist is intimate with this invisibility, revealing herself or himself almost exclusively in what s/he creates.)

None of this would matter if we weren’t born with a longing to be known. Yet it falls on some to never fully arrive, who are blessed if even one person understands them. Invisibility can be lived with, however, often contentedly, particularly if the one invisible is a born observer rather than a participator. But no matter how practiced at solitude the invisible man is, loneliness might still sneak in through a crack in the glass.

Alan D. Tucker, MA
Content Writer, Essayist, & Novelist