Art & Creativity

I remember years ago walking down the street looking at trees, wondering what do we need art for, what do we need paintings of trees for, when the trees themselves are right here and they’re more beautiful that any interpretation of them can possibly be, and we can simply look at them directly? 

I wondered: isn’t art just a poor substitute for reality? Doesn’t a painting of a tree (for example) just put itself between us and the real tree like a wall, allowing us to ignore the real tree and care less about it, in favor of the fake image? We might assume that depictions of nature in art are meant to connect us with it and help us appreciate it more, but doesn’t image-making in fact distract our attention away from the real world and thereby contribute to the disconnection of humans from the rest of nature, which is a big part of the problem that’s facilitating the destruction of the planet?

I agonized over this, felt confused, and for a long time didn’t draw the beings around me. But I draw some of them now, from an impulse and with a feeling that is the opposite of disconnection, but is more like respect, reverence, love — and wanting to share that with other humans. The act of drawing someone can be a process of learning to know them. It’s close observation and bringing whom we see into our own bodies from our eyes to our hands as we create an interpretation that’s a combination of them with elements of our own imagination. It’s a very intimate act of connection that should be done thoughtfully and with respect.

Recently I drew a spiny orb weaver. I’ve also painted one, and made a wood cut-out of one. I am aware of a danger of symbolizing them. I think about this as potentially a problem.

I see these kind of spiders every day. I say hello to them. I try to stay out of their way, ducking under their webs rather than breaking them, if they’re in the middle of my path. I notice them with an open heart, with affection. And yet with a very few exceptions I don’t recognize or distinguish between individual ones. I like them as a species — I’m not sure that’s enough.

Do I offer the real ones less attention because I’ve made images of them? Does looking at the art take away from interacting with the spiders outside? I reflect on my behavior and don’t think that’s happening. Instead, creating and viewing the images seems to lead me to be more aware of the real ones because it would feel weird, out of alignmnet, hypocritical, to care more for the images than for the beings themselves. The art brings the spiders into more mindspace.

When I share the images, I’m inviting others to offer attention and connect together in care for these kind of spiders (and individual ones, plus other kinds of spiders by extension). The image is saying: spiny orb weavers are important. They are not to be dismissed or ignored. They are to be honored and respected, known and loved. When we see them don’t sweep their webs aside, but say hello.

Still I recognize the dialectic at work here, a unity of opposites: the danger of disconnection through mediation is always present and intertwined with art-as-connection. It’s not one way or the other but always both, and our intention matters, and it’s necessary to be careful.

* The land is the material basis of our lifeways, how we meet our material needs, and this is the foundation of human culture. Our cultures are shaped by place and time, evolving through history and reflecting our changing relationships with our surroundings and with other social formations. 

* Creating is a human impulse echoing nature’s constant creation. We apply our inherent creativity to all sorts of activities, from having children to cooking to fixing cars to sharing our stories to finding a new way home.

* In societies where divisions of labor developed, though much production was still centered in the home, some people became artisans, focusing on making specific things as their primary social economic activity. The artist came to be, servant of religion and royalty. As capitalism emerged it harnessed art to its own pursuits (as it did with science), standardizing it, professionalizing it, and hairsplitting it into ever more numerous separate forms and fields.

* We are discouraged from understanding our daily activities as creative, so that our natural impulse to create can be commercialized and sold back to us. 

I painted two pieces last night. They’re both on the angry side.

My artwork seems to be falling on two sides of the anti-capitalist emotional spectrum lately: rage and horror on the one hand, and on the other hand, faith that humans can get our shit together and support one another to overcome it all. I keep thinking of Gramsci’s well-known statement: “I’m a pessimist because of intelligence, but an optimist because of will.” I don’t feel like that exactly; my optimism isn’t a matter of *will* but just bubbles up naturally. It does go against my “intellect” — if I have to look at facts, I do believe that most life on Earth is likely fucked (unless there’s some surprising turn). But I’ve often been wrong. And my intuition still insists on hope.

Anyway these two approaches keep coming out in my work. I’m thinking of grouping and naming them accordingly, with contradictory words or phrases in the spirit of Gramsci’s statement. Maybe “Rage” and “Defiant Heart” or something like that.

Art is emotion made concrete. Art hurts and art heals. Art makes us think, know, and believe. Art is sharing from within. Art reveals and conceals. It alienates and connects. Through art we may discover truths. Art is our consolation. Art is our weapon. Art is more than painting, drawing, singing and dancing; it is also cooking, customizing a motorcycle, raising a child, cultivating a garden, relating history, making an argument. Art is the creative spirit expressing itself through us all. Art is life. Art is for everybody.

Art is not a spectator sport. Art is a process. It’s a vehicle for self-discovery and for contemplation of the world’s phenomena. Art is transformative. We don’t just look at it; we do it. The point is not only “what it means” but “what I thought about while creating it.” Art is a doorway. It invites us to relax into an idea. It unravels structured thought into intuition. Observation becomes insight.

This is by no means the entire picture.

Here is something I wrote for the blog of the Amsterdam-based VJ (Video-Journalism) Movement.
http://blog.vjmovement.com/?p=94

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When I draw editorial cartoons, I want them to do one or both of two things: expose the system and encourage resistance. In this era, when life on this planet is being systematically killed and converted into profit, and human beings are crushed by exploitation and oppression, to make a principle of creating apolitical art is worse than useless. In fact, in a time of acute crisis, there is no such thing as apolitical art. Whatever the intention of the artist, art that does not promote resistance (overtly or tacitly), in effect supports the status quo.

Purely decorative art does have its appropriate place and time: a time of peace, harmony and sustainability. Unfortunately, we don’t live in such a time. Today, the world cries out for a culture of resistance, art that contributes to building a movement to fight back. We are in a state of emergency, and conditions demand that artists (and everyone else, for that matter) be engaged in the process of putting an end to this system and transforming society.

Editorial cartoons are by nature critical. When asked why his work is always negative, one cartoonist points out that “a positive cartoon is called a greeting card.” I would add that a neutral cartoon is actually an illustration. The function of editorial cartoons is to attack and subvert those in power and their official pronouncements (which are, inevitably in class society, lies).

Editorial cartoons may not often be radical, and are rarely revolutionary, but if they are good, they are always oppositional. This is true even in parts of the world where open opposition is a death sentence. Under such conditions, a cartoonist’s opposition may be subtle or concealed, but it is always there. Readers perceive this. It is the reason readers love them.

Editorial cartoons reveal truths about current events and politics while making the reader laugh, usually in bitter recognition. The form – an image in a box, with or without a bit of text – forces the message to be pared down to its minimal essence. When done well, a cartoon reaches the reader’s consciousness with instant clarification, turning a previously complex or obscured concept into something now obvious.

I have often used the phrase “resistance through ridicule.” When we use humor to expose absurdity and hypocrisy, and inspire our readers to laugh at those in power, then we help our readers to be less afraid. When our respect for the powerful switches to contempt, we can better imagine them toppling from their lofty positions. We can imagine toppling them ourselves.