Artist's Essentials For Survival, Part 2

PERSISTENCE
If an idea feels right but doesn't seem to yield anything at first, keep working on it, keep shaping. If it is really good, it will declare itself.

WET ART
Avoid placing wet or porous works of art near fires, especially papier-mâché type work that has been accidentally submerged in water - it may explode when heated, producing dangerous flying fragments which could take out an eye if you are close to the fire.

COLD STUDIOS
If heat is lost rapidly - rewarm rapidly
If heat is lost slowly - rewarm slowly

STUDIO LAYOUT
Latrines must be downhill of studio and away from the water supply to avoid risk of seepage.

GALLERIES
Be suspicious of any gallery with no goodwill, or avaricious dealers present. It is likely to be regretted. Check eyes for soul which might indicate true prosperity. Always show art in intelligent rooms. In foolish circles, art without stewardship becomes dross: its company must be respected.

HOW TO RETAIN FUNDS
Avoid giving away too high a commission. Keep cool. Never lie. Be as much an admirer of them as they are of you.

FEAR NOTHING
You are an artist. As such, you must aim high.

Correctional Facility

I made one or two errors a few blogs back and it was only because of some fact-checking about the physics of flying that I came across them again. Ouch. They hurt. I couldn't bear the idea that these little mistakes had been floating about in the ether, uncorrected, for over 48 hours. (To those who understand, I apologise.) Now, of course, tweaked and trimmed, the situation is normal, and placed in some kind of perspective. But, I wonder, what is it exactly that makes us ache so in the face of imperfection? Is it not arrogant to think we can achieve it? Are not our mistakes in fact there to teach us? In some areas of my life I am seriously disorganised, and yet, in one or two others at least, I am not - the latter only existing because of a kind of dedicated attention to detail. An unintentional mistake for me in something creative is like a slur. Also, it is plain irritating, like a fly on the face of one of those mime artists pretending to be a statue, when something is not right, especially when you know exactly what it is, can often physically see it, and yet can do nothing about it. Anyway, I've witnessed all manner of this with the artist, which is in fact the point I am getting at. Ever since I have known her, I have witnessed almost daily her art as a manifestation of perfectionism. (Hers for example teaches me that perfection can be rewarding.) The standards this dictates is reflected in the quality of the work, and is therefore necessary. But is not this basic need to get things right also a form of respect? Is it not about not being lazy, not allowing the great expectations of what you are hoping to achieve to slip, and not wishing to disappoint or insult others? Be that through a lack of stamina on your part, a fear of failure, or both. Admittedly perfectionism can also be the reason for the person who is convinced they have left the iron on and have to travel all the way back home to confirm that in fact they have not. But it can be as worthwhile as confronting your demons, grabbing the bull by its horns, grasping the nettle - call it what you will - when you push it. No pain, no gain, may be too simplistic, but the genie only appears if the lamp is polished. (Though the woods, as someone else said, Henry Van Dyke I think, would be very silent if no birds sang except those that sang best.)

Old Flame

I am sitting by a tall white candle. The flame is sure and perfectly still. Not even my typing seems to influence any movement and it is rather like sitting here with a soul. Our daughter walks in. The candle is getting flustered. It leans to the left. It leans to the right. It swirls all around. It lopes like a drunk. Ah. It is still again. You see, the artist is trying to get both children to sleep. They are quiet again. The artist now returns to the sitting room. She leans across me for an empty cup. The candle flickers regularly, steadily, like a pet familiar with the caressing manoeuvres of its master. The artist puts the kettle on in the kitchen and returns to the room again with a large yellow plastic bag, carrying various images collected for her from the centre of the capital. Feel the heat. She is looking at them now on the bright red sofa. As she rustles the crisp and semi-transparent packaging, the candle sways, almost like a waltzing ghost. The artist now leans back on the sofa, sending another gust of air across the room, but this time the candle does not respond. It seems satisfied with the artist's position. It would appear not to wish to grumble. I stare more closely at the naked flame. The burning wick leans to one side like the right-hand side of the letter 'n'. There is a red-hot tip to the top. The actual flame carried by the wick is perhaps two-and-a-half to three times the wick's height. It looks like a Klansman. The artist, though, is as still and as serene as the flame. She will be working tonight. I just know it. In fact she rises presently from the bright red sofa, comes towards me, and moves a variety of working items onto the table. She is also moving the flame. The candle is still but the flame is definitely moving around. It is dancing, strutting, jigging, twisting, two-stepping, tangoing, tapping, hoofing it, doing the rhumba. This candle is going to watch the artist tonight.

My kind of town

Obviously I'm no real authority on art and do remember a lighter side, in particular sitting at the front desk of one of the galleries I worked in across the ocean having been told by my flavour-of-the-wall gallery boss that a group of academics were coming in shortly and would I do the cause of great art a service by giving a brief talk. ‘A talk?' I said. 'On what?’ (I’d just been in a war and was confused as hell.) ‘Oh, the history of the place, that sort of thing,’ she said. ‘But it’s only about six months old this gallery,’ I said. She smiled knowingly. Anyway, half an hour of obviously important history later, the door squeaked open and this erudite long face looked round and said Pee-wee Herman-style: ‘We’re here!’ I brushed aside my wheeled executive chair like a small pet and immediately shepherded everyone in. Oh there must have been at least twelve of them and I stood in the middle of the gallery nodding like a priest as they looked round before launching into a long and winding road of freshly bottled information about the gallery, gentrification, new collectors, visual rather than literary culture. Sometimes in mid-sentence I’d hang there like a fish in the middle of a fish-tank with its mouth wide open taking in the bubbles. On occasion the odd pair of eyes would prop me up as I randomly sparked my campfire thoughts about this movement and that movement, and when it came to the artists themselves I did my best to raise high the roof-beam, carpenters. Anyway, each person came up to me afterwards and firmly shook my hand. ‘Much more than we imagined,’ said one. ‘Exceeded our highest expectations,’ said another. I must admit I was chuffed. I sat down satisfied and alone at the front desk and had just placed my hands behind my head when the door opened. ‘Excuse me,’ said this person. 'Can I help you?' I said. ‘We’re here for the talk,’ he replied. God knows who those first people were.