Arts N' Crafts

I am an artist. I am also a craftsman. I am currently unsure if there’s a distinction. Intellectually, I know that there is. As succinctly as I can put it, a craft is functional art. If it serves a utilitarian purpose, it’s a craft; if it serves an exclusively aesthetic purpose, it is art. And, as art, it commands a much higher dollar value than a craft.

I’m very torn as to whether I buy into this dogma. By essay’s end, I will have both defended and picked apart this logic. And I can almost guarantee I will not come to any sort of conclusion, infuriating myself and and any readers who were (naively) banking in my wisdom to resolve the matter.

The human animal has a funny little quirk among animals of valuing luxuries over neccessities. It obviously comes from a time when we were settling into cognitive thought and first started appreciating things for their appearance. We still knew that we needed things, and we knew what those things were (tools, clothing, shelter, food), but now there were suddenly these things we wanted for no other reason than they looked good. They didn’t help us live, they made living more enjoyable. I’ll fight the urge to go on an anthropological tangent and merely note that over time, labor became specialized, and an artisan class emerged, and with each generation, these craftspeople became better at making the things we needed, to the point where aesthetic decisions were coming into play.

Fast forward 13,000 years. I can sell an etching for $275, but a book I hand stitch, using a less successful pull of that same etching as a cover, I can charge $45. Tops.

The book is far more useful, so why not charge more? I think I have the answer: First off, the etching is pure art. I am implicitly saying when I market this etching, “This is the best I have to offer. It is a culmination of years of practice & education, and a fine demostration of all my artistic abilities. I offer this etching up to history, in the hopes that future generations (as well as this) will appreciate it for the miracle that it is.”

It’s not as hyperbolic as it sounds. We artists must have a firm belief in our abilities to even want to present our art to the world. I also think it hits upon the crux of the matter: Art is an investment. A craft, no matter how beautifully made, is intended to be used. And things that get used tend to get broken, weathered, beaten & torn. So, to our subconscious, the craftsperson is saying, “I present to you this, the best of my hand. I thing it’s really good, but not so great that you should put it away forever in a safe place. Go ahead, break it! I can always make another...”

Yes, I know how wrong this is. The craftsperson is no less talented, their work no less amazing than an artist. Proof? take a mid-nineteenth century quilt, put it on the wall, and 150 years later that craft becomes art. Take a (and yes, allow me the lattitue to paraphrase Indiana Jones here) crudely flaked stone, bury it for 13,000 years, dig it up, and put it in a museum. I’d stand in line to see that before 99.99% of all the work of all the artists of the last 500 years.

Once again, time is the great equalizer. So, craftsmen take heart, we artists won’t make any money until we’re dead, and even then, only if we’re very, very good. But, not only will you make money in your lifetime, but if by some fluke your work manages to survive a few centuries intact, it’ll BECOME art.

Not that it wasn’t before, but, well, y’know...

Iconography & Inspiration

I am an artist. And I sometimes run into roadblocks. Inspiration comes in waves, but waves have peaks and valleys. So sometimes I find myself struggling with finding subject matter worth sharing.

At these moments (I should not say ‘moments’, they sometimes last months) I must always return to the following truth: Art is a visual language. We communicate stories, ideas, emotions and more using images instead of- or in conjunction with- words.

There are some artistic camps that assert that art for art’s sake is enough. That pure form needs no story, no narrative, no overarching meaning. I can accept that, but personally, I find it rather uninspiring. I’ve drawn countless abstract compositions, but even the most successful ones have felt incomplete until I’ve plugged some sort of subject matter into the composition.

So what inspires me? I’ve played with organic forms against geometric in monotype. I etched nautical scenes for years. I’ll always return to drawing the human figure. I’ve started studies for a series of architectural etchings. But if there is one thing that brings me to the drafting table every time, it is iconography.

Do I mean that in the purest sense? Perhaps not. What I refer to when I say iconography is a single object, a series of objects, or a scene that suggests a larger story. A vignette, if you will. Back in art school, a teacher was laying into me over an image he didn’t think translated well (I’m not sure why, it has sold several times over...), and a friend who had worked very closely to me for a few years came to my aid with, “Mike’s art always looks like the opening scene of a movie, like it’s about to open up into a larger story.”

Bam! Pow! It blindsided me. She’d just summed up why I make art, and what I’m trying to accomplish with that art before I’d ever started asking the question of myself.

So where do I draw this inspiration from? It’s simple; I don’t feel like I need to attach a story to an object, when I feel as though every object already has a story to tell. Have you ever jumped into a foundation hole and pulled an old bottle from the wall, and just turned it over in your hands, and let your mind drift back to who may have used it, and under what circumstances it came to be buried here? Have you ever been walking through the woods and come across a kill site, bones or feathers, and imagined what animals were involved; whether the prey ever saw its end coming? Ever been cleaning out an old relative’s closet and come across a ledger with the dates 1907-1911 written in it along with a list of expenditures and tried to piece together exactly who’s hand had written it?

Yes, these all sound like jobs for an archaeologist, not an artist. But is art so different? Don’t many of us try and string together a story using what few visual clues the world has decided to share with us? I see both pursuits as detective work. Time washes away all but the faintest traces, and leaves both artist and archaeologist with three things: a few relics, an imagination, and a desperate need to tell the story.

This is what I mean by iconography. Telling a whole story with just a few images. Sure everybody’s story is going to be slightly different, but that’s a chance I’m willing to, nay looking to make.

Special thanks to Andrea Cacase, who not only appears in the drawing at the top of the page, but whom I've quoted for this essay.

Chosen Profession

I am an artist. And I get a lot of sideways glances for saying that out loud. Sure, anybody who knows me wouldn’t raise an eyebrow at hearing me refer to myself an an artist, but when meeting someone for the first time, it never fails to draw some level of surprise or skepticism.

That may seem rude or prejudiced of people, but consider this: what is the second question we’re always asked when we meet somebody new? If the first is our name, the second question is usually, “What do you do?” meaning, “How do you make your money?” (Unless you’re getting picked up, then they’ll be fishing for information on your significant other. Or so I’m told, I’ve never been hit on, as far as I know.)

Personally, what I do for money has little to do with who I am. I work four part-time jobs, and I’m not sure which, if any, will ever evolve into a career. I have two brothers who could both honestly answer the question, though. One is a teacher, the other a sailor, and they are both passionate about their chosen professions. When my brother says, “I’m a sailor,” he’s referring not only to how he earns his living, but also to what he loves; what he does for fun. My other brother may not teach for fun, but none of us doubts that he’s found his calling.

But would it be wrong of him to say, upon introduction, “I’m a father”? Doubtless he’d rather be with his family than twenty teenagers.

I used the phrase ‘chosen profession’ above. My older brother has a Bachelor’s in history and a Master’s in education. My younger is a Massachusetts Maritime Academy graduate. I have a Bachelor’s of Fine Arts, and we three are all pursuing our ‘chosen professions’. I simply must do other things to make ends meet. Perhaps the reason I’ve been unable to parlay any of my jobs into a career is that I’ve already chosen my profession. I say ‘perhaps’, but we all know it to be true.

I personally find the question discomforting. If I answer dishonestly, and say “I’m a teacher,” the next question will invariably be “Where do you work?” Nowhere in particular, I’m a sub. Should I say “I work part time as a land surveyor and also as a furniture conservator?” Both are good jobs that I do enjoy, but can one honestly call a part-time job a career?

And if I answer truthfully? I know that “I’m an artist” better communicates who I am as a person - my dreams, my motivations, my passions and my future plans. Most folks react to my answer with genuine interest, as that it’s so far removed from what they’re used to hearing. The rest of the conversation passes amiably, discussing my art, their own favorite artists, friends of theirs who are also artists, or other interesting, art-related topics. Whenever I’ve introduced myself as a land surveyor, I’ve had to hear about the neighbors fence or argue the merits of denitrification. For the most part, people like to know that there are individuals out there who are at least trying to live the dream, and want to latch onto the dream themselves, if only for a little while.

There are always a few jerks who’ll counter with “Well, you’ll never make any money ‘til you’re dead,” but I’m not in the business of justifying my existence to them. I’m a pragmatist, and I know it’ll be a long time, if ever, before art will support my wife and I. I know I’ll need a day job. But I’m not about to give up my identity to fit more seamlessly into polite conversation.

So I mitigate. I think I’ve effectively distilled years of awkward conversations into an appropriate response. It stops the cynics from tearing at your passion and lets the believers in on the joke. It neither denies me my identity, nor diminishes the struggles that every one of us, artist or otherwise, faces in life. And I invite my fellow artists to help themselves to it: “I am an artist. But I work other jobs to feed the art habit.”

Note: Since writing this, I've taken a post as an art teacher and am happy with it. But I stand by my original intent...

Speaking of Art

I am an artist. And sometimes, when I speak with other artists, I wish I wasn’t. No, that’s not true, I love being an artist. I wish they weren’t artists. Once upon a time, as I was finishing my art school education, I was so jaded by “artists” that I thought I would never want to be one myself. Sure, I knew I’d always love making art, but there was something so distasteful to me about the title of “artist”, and all the stereotypes it carried.

But then, I graduated, moved back to the Cape, and, surrounded by my brothers and their friends - all decidedly unartistic - I realized that being an artist is what made me different; special. It was my identity, like it or not. So I decided that my personal definition of “artist” was flawed, and would have to be reassessed.

As that there are so many types of artists, it’s almost impossible to define the common traits of great artists, but, in my opinion, there is one trait that is absolutely neccessary: The overwhelming desire to share.

Sure, sharing your art with the world would seem like a no-brainer; what artist wouldn’t want to show their work in a public forum, expand their audience, possibly makes some sales? But that’s not what I’m talking about.

We artists have been known to be elitist and exclusionary. We spend our days in our studios (or wherever we choose to create or work), communicating only with other artists, bandying about words like “controposto” and scowling at the non-artists when they don’t appreciate our vision. How could they not grasp the relevance of Kazimir Malevich “Supremist Composition: White on White”? (which is, in fact, a white canvas with a single, off-white square painted on it. I get it, but then, I’ve been trained to get it.) We create a mircochasm for ourselves, and then say of the outsiders, ‘If they don’t get it, I’m not going to waste my time explaining it to them.’

We dismiss illustrators as “prostitutes, ” and pop singers aren’t real musicians, because they create art for a mass audience. And then we’re shocked and outraged when the pencil pushers (whom we’ve never once reached out to, after all, they’re not our target audience) cut art programs from our schools.

It’s widely accepted that learning a musical instrument helps students in other subjects, but we, as a culture, cannot seem to rally behind these programs, and instead settle for the quick fix of “standards-based learning.” Whatever happened to the concept of artists being the spokespeople for a generation? This voluntary exile makes no sense to me.

When I hear somebody say, “I don’t get it,” in a gallery, I see that as an opportunity to let someone into the microchasm. The more people we bring in to the cult of art, the more we’ll have standing in our corner when the budget cuts come rolling around. Everybody knows why we need math and english, science and history. The need for art is harder to define, but no less essential to our society. Our art defines us as much as do our advances in technology. When we think upon the Renaissance, sure we know about Galileo, but we we feel like we know Michelangelo as a person - or, at least as the original “totrured artist.” Newspaper clippings, history books and news footage will pass along the facts of our time, but our music, our films and our art will enable future generations to know how it “feels” to live in this day and age.

I can’t think of a better justification for art than that.

To be an artist, you need to be fascinated by everything. To be a great artist, you need to be so fascinated by everything that you cannot help but share this fascination with the world. We need all the great artists we can get in this increasingly homogenous society, where standardization is the hallmark of education, and lateral thinking would be nice, but won’t help you pass the MCAs.

In art school, I learned a great deal on speaking about art. But the importance of being able to communicate this knowledge to non-artists was not imparted upon me. Conversely, my wife’s grandmother made a point of ensuring that her grandchildren be exposed to art, imparting upon them the importance of art, but not the vocabulary of the artist. Both of our educations were incomplete, but neither knew it until we compared notes. But, I daresay, as that hers was free, and I’m still paying mine off, I drew the shorter straw. With no formal education, she’d managed to learn what I had not, though hadn’t been given the tools to articulate what she knew.

I spent sixteen years of school learning to make art. I’ve spent seven furious years since then trying to define in words why we, as a society, need art - and wondering why only one instructor felt it neccessary to kindle in me that fire.

I an am artist. And I want to make sure that future generations get to say the same thing.

Special thanks to Professor Anthony Miraglia.

Bottles

I am an artist. And sometimes I think, when I look around at all the millions of different ways of making art, that the only thing that sets artists apart from the rest of the populace is that they’re fascinated by just about everything. Do you find everything fascinating? Then you, my friend, are an artist, too.

Not only am I a producer of art, I’m also an avid collector. I’m not speaking of prints or paintings (not right now, at least), but of the simple masterpieces I see all around me. I have collections of feathers, shells, nests, even bones. The fact that man had no hand in creating something means nothing to me in terms of art collecting. Art is where we find it. And speaking of found art, I can never pass by an excavation site without hopping in and rummaging for “found art.” I’ve been at it long enough to know in which areas to find the good stuff. Broken ceramics that were thrown in middens (an archaeological term that has far more poetry in it that ‘trach heap’) before the time of roadside trash collection. Objects created by man, destroyed by man, and then perfected by nature. And then, of course, there’s the bottles.

When riffling through the detritus of ages, there’s always a small thrill at finding something whole, intact. Given their sturdy structure and disposability of purpose, bottles stand up to the tests of time better than most objects. Besides, nobody would ever throw away an intact tea set, but a used bottle of Bromo-Seltzer?

Sure, I’ve been kicked off of construction sites, and of course, I’ve picked up things I’ve immediately regretted for various, often bloody reasons, but the payoff is worth it. There are apparently whole societies dedicated to the pursuit of bottles. I’m in it for the art. I’m in it for the history that you can feel in your hands when you wipe the dirt away and see a stopper still inside.

Each find has a story, I’m sure of it. I don’t need to know the details, the fact that a story is there is enough for me. I’ve got Prohibition-era whiskey bottles and milk glass Pond’s tubs with cold cream residue still inside.

Inkwells are my personal grails (some collect Coca-Cola-bottles, some collect bitters). The crown jewel of my collection is a Civil War-era, hand-blown inkwell. It’s opalescent, with a tarnish that’s referred to as a “sickness” by collectors of bottles. Which is fine by me, after all, I don’t collect bottles- I collect art.