Ponder - Why Is It Hard Part 3

I was just reading Stapleton Kearns’ blog post and the letter from the outraged artist at the beginning made me think of another thing that trips us up: we don’t know what other people really think.

If you’re not selling, there’s a good chance that the advice and feedback you’re getting falls into two categories. Neither of them is really pleasant, and so they’re usually disguised almost into pointlessness by the giver. So we don’t hear the feedback, maybe for years, until the selfsame realization is made by ourselves.

The two feedbacks are this, and you have to listen for them: your technique is inadequate, or, nobody cares.

Technique is definitely something one can improve… Especially if one is aware that they’re being told to improve. But many times this feedback is nestled so deeply in the bosom of cushioning statements like, “wow great effort!” that you can’t even hear it. You have to train yourself to listen bravely, even ruthlessly, for the cues. 

Then again, after about 90% of technique is achieved, only other artists will even know it’s there.  Circling endlessly around finer and finer points of technical excellence is a good way to avoid content, meaning, and impact.  Possibly forever.  The last few times I’ve been to the Art Institute of Chicago I’ve looked again at the technique of some famous paintings to realize: they only used enough technique to get the job done.  No more, no less. There are errors in paint handling and drawing that, if you posted some of these master works on popular internet art forums, you’d get chewed out like crazy.

The other secret message from the peanut gallery is: nobody cares.  This one is very slippery, because I tend to think that inspiring connections and empathy through something you produce is not entirely in your conscious control.  In other words: some people just won’t ever have it.  Now that’s a terrifying thought. 

In Stapleton Kearns’ blog post, a gallery owner responded to the artist’s complaint by advising that artists should remember that the buyer buys things for themselves, and artists should paint things they want.  I think that’s part of it, but still a bit mollycoddly because it assumes that if one were to turn their attention to the buyer’s desires, one could paint something the buyer would like.  But…  what if not?  What if, no matter how hard one tries, nobody will care what you do?

This second sort of advice is at the root of a few of our perennial conversations.  For instance, where we talk about “not doing it for the money,” or “only painting for ourselves.”  On the face of it, both of those statements seem arrogant and self-entitled, but I think really they’re a pre-emptive avoidance of the idea that success is acceptance.  (But I guess if one delays that acceptance for 200 years, one can never be disproven in this lifetime.)  And acceptance is at least a little bit about who you are, how likable you are, how much charisma you have, and how much care and empathy you can inspire in what you say and do.

Like the anonymous artist in Stapleton’s blog, I’ve been mystified at some of the folks getting paraded around on litters, and it’s easy to point to sophomoric errors in drawing, paint handling, etc.  And to point out their storied upbringing or other unfair advantages: a marketing juggernaut, a stroke of luck here or there.  But I don’t compete with them anyway.  In the relative anonymity of my circle of competition, it’s easy to look around and realize, “oh hey, she just seems *interesting*, ” or “wow, he seems *likable.*”

Like that Stapleton guy.  He seems pretty likeable too.