Dropped Like A Bad Habit
There is an honesty to unmade beds that I find touching. They nod to something unfinished, of passion, misery, and a whole host of other emotions that we feel so deeply. What I find interesting is that when I saw Tracey Emin's My Bed, I didn't think like this. It would appear that it's only my bed and those of friends that can stir this wanton feeling. It is a well known fact that putting anything in a gallery space alters our perceptions of those objects, and a clinical, objective view of these objects is expected. After being taught for many years to question what it is I'm viewing, it's no surprise that once inside a gallery space I'm thinking logically and placing pieces within the history of art.
That and as much as many artists try, (through the use of fiction, fact, and story-telling) they can never exactly predict the viewers reaction. They can never completely control how the artwork will be read, and that's shows how beautiful we all our with our individuals beliefs.
I'm getting the art itch again. Between drawing, painting, and desperately trying to breath life into the Aloe Vera my Father launched across the room when I moved I'm having ideas. As per my whole practice since graduating, many of these will stay as ideas. Again I'm looking at material, multiples, and subject matter.
I want to create hundreds of apples using salt dough clay. Why? Because left in the right atmosphere without varnish they rot and decay, almost like real apples.
I want to exhibit my monoprints, extra large, at least A1, the eyes silently staring back at the viewer.
I want to curate another exhibition, I'm not sure where, or what (although the what has a delicate idea forming).
There are many more ideas I have that cannot be explained, because I want to work with a feeling, I want to induce a moment of revere in the viewer. A space and moment for contemplation and reminiscence, and I know how impossible this can be. I know I can only leave subtle clues and attempt a narrative that encourages these feelings in the viewer. I know that for all my ideas, ultimately I am not in complete control, and as much as that scares me at times, it's also freeing. I cannot (and I wouldn't want to) control others thoughts with a dictatorship within art. The variety of interpretations of what I do feeds back into the artwork.
When I was studying at university, there was a favourite line used by every tutor, and that was to not look for the finished piece. Within art is there ever really a finished piece? To find that elusive 'finished' piece would be to cease our investigations, it would the metaphorical way of saying "I found the answer and this answer is satisfactory".
In all my reading, and all my discussions with other artists, there is never a finished piece, and there is never a feeling of perfection. When I exhibited You Never Bought Me Flowers, I asked the curator who was further into her practice than I was, if artists were ever happy with what they exhibited. She laughed and told me no. That search for the piece that says it just right never goes away. In discussions with Bex we muse on the idea that an artist has the one piece that breaks them through into the upper echelons to give them some success, and from then on their practice emulates this one seminal piece.
And all this knowledge? It gives me hope.