An article in the International Herald Tribune caught my eye the other day and I clipped it out to save. Titled “Moody, snooty artists? Blame the Romantics,” by Alan Riding who asks when did Western societies start venerating artists “…as sensitive misunderstood geniuses?” (Thursday, July 20, 2006)
Until the 19th century artists were regarded as craftsmen, people with a skill; respected but not adored. With the Romantic movement artists began to take on airs, and modifiers: no longer merely artists, they became suffering, starving, intense, crazy, bohemian. Rebelling against conventions they despised the bourgeoisie, the straight world. The late Townes Van Zandt was a classic case in point, sneering at commerce. “The song’s the thing, man.” Townes savored his anguish, his blues, and I think it pissed him off that failing to go out in his prime and beauty he survived to become pitiful, emaciated, bereft of his powers… unlike Hank Williams, Janice Joplin, or James Dean. I don’t recall Townes ever mentioning James Dean, but the idea is the same… only the good die young, a notion central to the romantic canon.
It seems to me we all have a natural tendency to enshrine our beliefs in a framework of immutable law, to give them an aura of divine ordination. Some artists go so far as to say that art is the highest summit of human endeavor. I find that a little extreme but I think it can be understood as a reaction against their being despised; which is more or less how Americans tend to view artists. (Of course, if you break out into the national spotlight they will forgive—maybe even love—you). With respect to artists I don’t think people are aware that their attitudes come from specific historical circumstances, “…notably the disintegration of the idealism of the Enlightenment in the face of wars and unrest that convulsed Europe in the quarter-century after the 1789 French Revolution.” Once embedded, these attitudes become archetypes, eternal truths; nobody questions where they come from.
“It’s better to be an artist in Europe. People respect you more than they do in America.” So goes the saying, and like most clichés, it holds some truth. To be a fifty or sixty-year-old unknown and unrecognized artist in America is to be a failure. But I think there’s something else involved here that usually goes by the name of jealousy: the notion that artists, even unsuccessful ones, have more fun. They don’t work a straight job; they get to travel; beautiful women gravitate to them. The rich ones don’t even die from their addictions; they check into a chic clinic and get new blood. It stirs resentment, so ably portrayed by the disgruntled character in Mark Knoppler’s song: that ain’t working, money for nothing, playing the guitar on MTV.
You can hear this same resentment expressed in attitudes about abstract art: my three-year-old can paint as good as that. People don’t like to think someone is putting them on… not only is this asshole getting away with murder, he’s dissing me. (It seems to me sports figures escape being targeted with this resentment, but I could be wrong. Artists despise jocks too—I know I do. You can get to feeling this way playing a gig in a sports bar with the television on).
In one of my favorite Steve Earle interviews he talks about how he relishes flying first-class and the resentful stares of the other privileged passengers when he comes on board in his rock & roll leather, shoulder-length hair and Mao t-shirt. There’s got to be some rich satisfaction in that; turn the situation around and advertise your scorn for the suits, the business-heads, the White Man. I’d love to be a fly on the wall and watch—who let the riffraff in?
Several paragraphs into the story we learn the occasion for Alan Riding’s article in the Tribune: an exhibition at London’s National Gallery called “Rebels and Martyrs: The Image of the Artist in the 19th Century.” Better than a fly on the wall, I’d like to fly up to London and check out the show; take Edith and make a little holiday. First-class, it goes without saying, slouch into a big leather seat in my jeans and cowboy boots; let my freak flag fly, order a free double-martini, and savor my cosmic importance.
I think this asks a question of us artists. Do we enjoy or play to the role/facade of suffering artist? Can anyone join in the ranks or is there a quota of suffering and pain we must have in order to become one of the fold? My gut reaction is they have to pay their dues otherwise the work would be weak. Weakness cannot be tolerated. I want to see some scars from the struggle, some effort and pain in their work, honesty in the strokes.
I had a student last year who saw my work at a show. The man unfortunatley didn't want to purchace the work but instead wanted me to teach him how to paint in my style. He wanted a recipe. Now I am not one to turn away praise but it rankled me that here was a fifty some odd year old man, a doctor, who wanted a shortcut into the game. I struggled with this and still wonder if my apprehension was because he wanted to copy my style or he hadn't paid his dues. He hadn't struggled. He had money and spare time but didn't even want to keep a studio or even a sketchbook. He wanted to sidestep all the hard-fought work to arrive at a finished style.
My work and style have been arrived at through years of painting and drawing, successes and failures, stops and starts, pain and loss. All these elements combine into a lexicon of my own. I don't approach my work as Step a, b, c, add a bit of blue and sign in the corner.
So is good art born out of pain and suffering? Are we still reenforcing this romantic notion?
In art school I remember a crit once where a fellow class mate turned in a cute painting for critique, a bear or something awful, and the teacher saved her painting until last. The entire class salivated in anticipation - ready to pounce and rip her to shreds. He finally turned to her and said simply "You are the type of person that would swerve and kill a child to avoid running over a dog."
Weakness in any social order is shunned and attacked, the teeth come out and we see at our heart we are predators waiting for a sign of weakness, the scent of blood in the air (or water). Romantic or not, pain and suffering builds a thicker skin and hopefully a better artist.
I suppose that what I’m ‘spose to do here is comment and/or add to your article like so often I’ve seen on the sharkier side of this blog. Sorry. You did to damn good a job of writing it. Just thought somebody ought to say it. Thanks a bunch.
I think the notion of pain and suffering of the artist, and/or the starving artist, should be tossed away into the rubbish heap asap as it is one of many cliché ridden "images" of the artist. While I agree that hard work and experience builds character and opinions, it is never ever a guarantee that the artist's work will be better for it or for that matter interesting. I believe you can always improve the style or technique through practice, but it doesn't necessairly improve the idea(s) or content. I also think that you can argue the flipside as well, and say that time and money can lead to a certain amount of freedom and liberty to take further risks, buy better materials, employ the services of others etc. Besides, there's enough pain and suffering going on in the world to go around without artists getting in on the act.