How did I become an artist? Why do I make art?

And other easy questions?

...an introduction

When I was in the second grade, my language arts teacher, Lydia Sneed, asked us to memorize and recite The Charge of the Light Brigade. I dove into the process of learning and practicing the the poem. After we presented them, she contacted my mother to suggest that I get involved with theatre. I was enrolled in a class at Tulane with local actor Louis Barossa, and later with Lori Taylor at The Beverly Dinner Playhouse. Many of my summers and after school time was spent going to acting classes or practices. What I came to realize is that there is a technical process involved in creating. Even at a young age I liked the making more than the performing. There are systems, strategies, terms, and skills. Behind the curtain there is work. Artists have to love the work. Years later when I was the moderator for The Dionysians, our troupe at Brother Martin High School, students would often ask me if I was excited about the show. I would reply that I was excited about practice. What I meant was that I loved the work. Creating involves immersion in a process. When I learned The Charge of the Light Brigade for Mrs. Sneed, I didn't just memorize. I practiced it in front of the mirror and for my parents. I looked at my face and my body. I thought about what I was going to do and how I was going to move at each point. Even then, I was thinking like an artist. I remember afterwards thinking about what I perceived as mistakes. I certainly enjoyed praise and accolades, but what thrilled me the most is process.

Theatre and Poetry were my first mediums that I pursued as a young artist. I sought friends that would challenge my endeavors, and learned along the way that medium is irrelevant. (Man Ray said something like this. He often made paintings that looked like photographs, and photographs that looked like paintings) I liked the texture of words and sounds, and the visual harmonies and discords that could be created on a stage or in a film. I do believe that for facility or deftness to develop, an artist should focus on a particular medium. I consider myself very lucky in that I was able to balance a love for the stage and language with my love of painting. Miles Davis and John Lennon were both visual artists as well as accomplished musicians. That dichotomy perhaps has to do with the nature of persona. The image an artist presents of their self to the audience is by necessity curated. Because art makes one vulnerable, if it is honest, a front facing image of the artist is often nearly indistinguishable from the work itself. Salvador Dali embodied this idea. Actors and their created characters share the same molecules. Teaching in many ways is also about persona. "Mr. Joyner" was always at least partially facade.

For me, learning about art, whatever the medium, keeps the work from being lonely. Our souls and personalities are trapped within our bodies. Art making communicates the inner realities of existence with the world. I have always been fascinated by this shared experience among artists. Creatives understand what goes on behind the curtain. There is a camaraderie, for me, beyond just appreciation, more like kinship. The scratchings of ancient primates have been dated back thousands of years. They call out "I was here" to a vast and cold stretch of time. My own humanity necessitates that I listen and respond. Art persists from when it was created to the point where it is seen or experienced. It resonates with the process of its creation. Walter Benjamin called this resonance aura. It is the energy that art gives off. Going back to my recitation of The Charge of the Light Brigade, the words on the page have a kind of potential energy that rehearsal increased. Like a particle accelerator, practice or making culminated in the collision/release of a performance. The artist Jim Dine talked about art beginning when walking across the room to start it. The implication is that there is potential in the idea before it is executed. Pollock's drips and swirls and Van Gogh's frenetic brushstrokes pulse with energy that was once contained within their bodies and released through the creative process of making.

One question is: to what degree is that energy received? Is it ignored, peripherally absorbed, appreciated, or devoured obsessively? I am certainly critical, but I generally like aspects of most types/genres/mediums/styles of art. I find that if I delve into the context of a particular work, I can appreciate it. There are works and artists that I gravitate towards. As a teacher, I always thought it was important to validate a student's preference as relevant. At whatever level of appreciation, taste is generally worthy. In my work as an installer, placing and hanging art in peoples homes, I have found that taste evolves. Especially when building a collection, there is growth. They see how things relate and how the context of the artist and the acquisition creates a narrative that enhances the meaning. It's sort of like a playlist. No one song exists in a vacuum. Each is heard in relation to it's place in the sequence.

With my work I have always though about how the work is connected. It my graduate thesis I talked about this thing I called "The Long Body."

In other words, the the thread of continuity that runs through a body of work. I prefer to have works grouped so the connectivity is more apparent. It also mimics the studio process. Paintings to the left of me; drawings to the right of me...