Why do I make art? What is my objective? What kind of end result am I after? Is there an end? Is an art piece ever actually finished? How do you know when to step away from the canvas? An offer? An attempt at success?
You don’t know. You will never know when the process is complete. This is because the creative process cannot be completed. It’s not something an artist decides to step into or out of. The creative process is a continuum. It always exists and it’s always in motion, even when we sleep. It’s a cycle with tangents along the x, y. and z axis. To orient oneself in relation to the planes of this process could be helpful, but is not an easy task. On that note, one must never try to leave the process. To pursue a break from this process is an immediate sign of an amateur. A professional artist cannot fathom an excusable situation in which they decide to unwrap their gloves to step outside the rink of creation. This would entail the utmost degradation of purpose. The towl can never be thrown away. The towl is the heart of an artist, and it is always drenched in blood, sweat, tears, cum, slobber, you name it. It’s always heavy and definitely unsanitary, but it never degrades.
In any artistic endeavor, the intention of the artist is their only shot at producing some measurable form of meaning. The artistic statement of one’s work is the source of oxygen for any flame.
I used to think that the process of properly articulating one’s call to create entirely defeated the purpose of art. I made art with the intention of not having to conform to the sound bites of the English language. I didn’t want to talk about my art. I wanted to communicate thoughts without having to talk about them. This credence was pure, but unrealistic.
In studio, we would be required to stand up next to our projects and talk about them. Wtf did that mean? I thought the task was intended to speed up the viewer’s understanding of why. It has always been an extraordinarily awkward feat for me to try and articulate the causation of my work. In fact, I was terrible at. I would stumble around with the chore of selecting adjectives that were narrow enough to provide direction, but broad enough to avoid tyranny of the viewer’s personal interpretation of my work.
I would usually end up talking myself into knots more frustrating than tangled headphones. At some point in the mess of words and over zealous hand gestures, I would become annoyed with my inabilities and end up with a knot tighter than before. This knot restricted the flow of oxygen to my brain and cooked up a batch of sad noodle soup which began to pool in my stomach as I lurched away, tail tucked between legs.
In a not-so-conclusion conclusion…
Why do we create?