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.