Loneliness might not be the only spark for artistic fire, but I’m still figuring out what else to use. photo by Simone DiFalco
I wonder if an artist is still an artist if she can’t paint or draw. I wonder if she is still an artist if she won’t paint or draw.
Two years ago, I decided to take AP art. This is a rigorous course that involves submitting 20 finished pieces to the College Board, all contributing to a theme or idea explored and developed in these works. I took it because I was almost overflowing with ideas at the time. I have an entire notes app on my phone dedicated to writing down painting ideas and trying to connect them together to fit within a theme. I had a few good ideas and more than a few bad ones, but ultimately decided to go with the theme of dreams. I knew in my heart that this was a cop out. I didn’t have “dreams,” or I did, but not ones worth painting. Ultimately I just made stuff up. It was like I had a vision and I just needed to paint them, claiming that each painting was a mythical dream with meaning behind it was just the way to connect them. It worked. 5 key pieces later and I was submitting my score of four to college to be an art major.
I still had so many ideas, so I decided to take the class again. This time, I was aiming for a five. In my notes app I have written down “Growing old/dreams” with ideas like “infant in crib surrounded by stars and fish in a sky around them” and “old adult sleeping peacefully on the floor of a painting studio.” These were just rough ideas to get started, and eventually they morphed. Each painting this time around was going to be a self portrait of me gazing up at a fish-eye lens above. One lying in my bathroom sink, one on my kitchen table, one in the park by my house. Each painting a different color, a different location, and a different memory. I had all of these planned out, some even sketched out, and one fully completed. And then I just stopped.
For the first time in three years I chose by my own free will not to paint. It wasn’t like I was working on other projects, it wasn’t like I was out of ideas necessarily, I just didn’t want to paint. And I didn’t want to draw either. And I didn’t want to pick up a pencil. And I felt no guilt about not finishing my sketchbook. I felt no guilt about leaving my work undone. I felt no guilt for the family of artists I had made proud for so long. I felt nothing for the passion that I poured years into. I stopped posting my work because I had nothing to post.
In the next six months I tried, I really did. I would sit at my desk and try to draw whatever came to mind but nothing ever did. I tried to find the motivation to make more paintings but I just couldn’t. I felt so limited because I had no creativity. Instead I resorted to just redrawing photos from my camera roll. I drew outfits and portraits and food, just little sketches to make sure I wasn’t getting worse. I did activities with my friends to try and get back into art, drawing on each other’s papers in different colors until we had two unique pieces of pink and brown. But that didn’t seem to help either. It was fun, don’t get me wrong. They look cool too, intricate collages of monotone colored pencil. But I couldn’t draw any of it without a reference. Couldn’t come up with a single thing to put on paper unless someone else had done it first. I was so good at copying them too, you would never know it wasn’t mine, but the truth was each and every sketch was a photo I found online.
It wasn’t until recently that I started reflecting on why. I thought back to the times when I was most productive, most creative with my work. Interestingly enough, I worked when I was bored. Not just bored but lonely. I once spent an entire summer making art every single day because I was too young to get a job and too broke to go out. So I drew. Filled almost an entire sketchbook with brand new ideas and new techniques. When I worked on my biggest paintings it was because I didn’t like the seating chart in art class and going to the back to work on my painting was an escape from my table. And during my off period when I couldn’t drive and no one wanted to hang out, I spent every day painting until I was so far ahead in my class that I just goofed off the entire second half. But when I was happy I couldn’t paint. I didn’t want to take time out of my social life to let my mind be quiet and at peace. So I just didn’t.
I would say I am at a very happy point in my life, and I would say that it’s a good thing. I deserve to be happy just as much as everyone else. But I also have been trying to accept that good art doesn’t come from happiness. It comes from necessity. Think about it. Van Gogh, Picasso, Frida Kahlo, the most famous artists ever, were absolutely miserable. They were miserable and they were lonely. A true artist can bring a painting to life, and a true artist will make that painting their one companion for as long as it takes for another idea to come. But does that mean that I am not a true artist? I’m not quite sure. I still have the skills for sure. The other day I sat down and forced myself to draw something. And I knew how to hold a pastel and work with it in such a way to blend it. I knew exactly how much pressure would create a texture that catches the light. I knew where to leave negative space and which colors would compliment each other. But there is no meaning. There is no passion.
When I go to college I will be an art major. And I will have no more choice in whether or not I make art. Currently the plan is to make myself lonely. Not all of the time, but lonely in my art class. Otherwise I worry I will never paint again. I know that’s not true deep down, but I worry that I’ll have to be miserable to do it. I don’t want to go back to two years ago when I had passion but nothing else. Now I have passion for so much more. The people in my life and the places I could be and the adventures my mind goes on are peaceful for me and not tortuous. I don’t need art as an escape anymore, but that means I miss it. So now, my next task is to determine what art means to me if not a pastime for lonely thoughts. The time has come to reinvent my work to mean something to who I am now. And hopefully that will help me answer the question: Why can’t I make art?
