Semiotics On A Semi-Open Day For The Semi-Closed Artists

The artist and her children arrived after a long and circuitous journey under a bright warm sun and deep blue sky. As they stepped into the revamped complex of what I later discovered to be the former site of a famous old king’s abattoir, I hung back and remembered visiting the artist when she worked in studios like this and they had their annual open studios. As my eyes finished adjusting to the change of light, the children picked up maps from the front desk of the different studios in the building and proceeded deeper into the cavernous structure like two young and happy art collectors, the youngest momentarily fanning himself with the sheet of paper bearing the different studios and artist’s names, while the eldest took it all in her 8-year-old stride. Artist’s names were pinned by some doors like tiny statements, while through the gaps of some of the other entrances you could see the occasional artist wince at the prospect of yet more people, perfect strangers, entering their most private of chambers. (Art is like an affliction to some and does not mask self-doubt.) Anyway, we stepped with continued care through the creative minefield. The atmosphere was one of expectancy and despair. I don't know, I may have been over-reacting, but I definitely felt uncomfortable, as if I shouldn’t really be there, as if the artists were only showing their work because they had been told that that is what artists do, or because it was all part of the deal of having a studio in the first place and that for at least two days every year they had to open them up to the public. The first studio we entered housed a female sculptor. I explained this dilemma of feared intrusion to her and she assured me that the artists in the building were only too happy to receive visitors or guests. She was sitting next to a shy male artist who had woken up at four in the morning and said he was tired as a consequence. (So at least it wasn’t me he was yawning at when I asked about the rats in the studios.) The second space housed a lone artist who sat like a wired crooner on a tall wooden stool by the open door as we entered. As we moved further into his space, which fanned out like a trampled wedding dress, he looked only mildly pleased to have us, and I felt as a result ‘mildly’ imprisoned. His work was large, yellowish, not even hungrily abstract, with a hint – without the strength - of the late surrealism of Matta. We moved on, up some stairs, and the sun shone through the windows, pinpointing the arrows to the next floor. (The children were carrying books and their feet slapped the stone stairs.) The next studio was friendly and another discussion began about the merit of such occasions. What was it with me?