When the Art Feels Old

I have been writing too much.  Last year it seemed that I was writing and writing and painting just a little.   Some of the paintings were good but most of them felt old, old in that they were echoes of what I used to do, had been doing for so many years.  I can’t explain it,  except to say that when I looked at them I saw myself two, even five years ago, the same approach, the same emotion, maybe  a general improvement in technique and materials, but still that underlying...sameness.

There was a part of me remembering what it felt like, long ago, before I learned about painting. A part that could remember the escape into the paint without the worry that worried me now, and part that whispered late into the night that I was well on my way toward competent mediocrity.  I began reading, and then I was reading and writing too much and still painting just a little, only the painting became less and less enjoyable until I wondered if I really wanted to be an artist at all.

I don’t really think my experience is unique.   We like to call it a growth process, but it’s damn discouraging when it happens – yes, we’re supposed to come out of it stronger but that only happens if you destroy a bit of yourself in the process – that bit that holds on to what you’ve been doing, the part that creeps into your work and makes it look old.

And that’s the thing, because there does seem to be a strong rational for creating work that appeals to the gatekeepers, those in power who tell the public what to look for in fine art.  In one of the books I am reading, titled Why Art Artists Poor? The Exceptional Economy of the Arts, the author, Hans Abbing (an economist and an artist), describes what he calls the two kinds of Art – High Art and Low Art, and that those who enjoy High Art look down on Low Art, while those who understand Low Art might admire High Art but they will never embrace it. 

It’s one of the books I probably shouldn’t have started to read, when I was reading and writing too much, because it made it more difficult to get back to serious painting.  Oddly enough it didn’t interfere with the painting that felt old, so I suppose that out of cowardice I was safely painting the way I had been painting while I tried not to answer the questions as to why.

But that “getting back to serious painting” part – that’s the key phrase here.  Because what I realized was that – for myself – the painting that felt old was the painting that was hanging on to the way I used to create  – when what I was doing was slowly moving into a different place, a different perspective about what I wanted to achieve.   And all that reading and writing was simply a way for me get beyond the form of tunnel vision that had been dictating my choices. 

In an odd way I feel like I grew up a bit. That old growth process thing again. 

But the new art doesn’t feel old. 

 

 

Need a nudge?

Book - Ancient Wisdom Emerging Artist: the business plan (not just) for the mature artist

Kindle US Store  - Ancient Wisdom Emerging Artist: the business plan (not just) for the mature artist

Kindle UK Store - Ancient Wisdom Emerging ARtist: the business plan (not just) for the mature artist

Comments

[A Facebook User]

Sue, You are right on the money. I was feeling the same way so yesterday I decided to use pastel and "paint" a landscape instead of my abstracted art. I think that will move me forward. Thanks for your blog and inspiring thoughts.

[Karen Martin Sampson]

As a fellow "ancient artist" (age 66 and counting) I recognize the quandry you describe. I am currently in one of those dormant phases - painting very little and what I do paint seems "old" as you say. My experience is that eventually I come across this, what I call a plateau, to a place where I can start to climb again. Last year I produced some of my best ever work and won several awards but now I am writing, knitting, reading, designing a new quilt, but not too enthused about painting; yet it continues to sit there on my shoulder; "when will you get back to painting?" the voice says without letup. When it's time, I answer. I have to have that faith:-)

[Barbara Wild]

Hmmmm, I should have proofread my own post :)

I meant OUT of the struggle, not of of the struggle!

[Barbara Wild]

This was deeply moving. Thank you!

As you're coming of of the struggle, please don't give up on all your writing, though...because you're GOOD at it.

[bridget hunter]

This post really resonated with me too. Thankyou.

[Sue Furrow]

I love getting your posts! It's almost like someone else (you) are looking into my brain and trying to unscramble the mess you find in there for me! You are brillant and I hope you will feel it at some point. I'm stuck right now but I think I caught a glimmer of the light at the end of that tunnel. Thanks for sharing. Have a beautiful year, Sue

[sue]

you would think I would be able to proof-read my own posts these days - the book is titled Why Are Artists Poor? And thanks, Patrick, I know what you mean about serious play and I am certainly trying to get some of that quality back.

[Patrick Gracewood]

Glad to hear there's a breakthrough, Sue.
The flip side to follow your bliss is that when you are doing what you love, there is no place to rest. We work all the time-and then our work becomes WORK.
I know that when there's an element of play, serious play, my work is the better for it.