The Chameleon

You're traveling with a fairly new friend in an unknown part of the country, through backwoods and small towns, and you stop for gas. It's the first time you've spent any extended period of time with this friend outside of the city for any reason and it is going pretty well.

350 miles later, you pull into a small station for a stretch break and fuel, and you head to the loo. When you return, you find that while you were gone she has been engaged in an extended conversation with the station owner who has pumped the gas and wiped the windshield. The weird thing, see, is that all of a sudden she has a thick country drawl that you've never heard before.

Ok, so maybe you admire the Chameleon's ability to "manipulate" people like this.  Perhaps you approve of the fact that they know how to "blend in" and make others comfortable by being like them. Perhaps you even ARE one of these chameleons.

The problem with the talented Mr. Ripley's strategy, apart from the fact that she cultivates a separate personality for each person she encounters, is that you don't really know the real person either because she has a "facet" for you too. You're just one more person in her conception of a particular "people model" that she emulates.

The bigger problem is that she may not even know who she is.

Unfortunately, this social chameleon model seems to have a counterpart in the art world: it is the artist who bends and flexes with what she thinks the industry wants. There are those who will say, "But, wait! The artist needs to acknowledge and fit into what the industry is doing! The artist must bend to the desires of the audience or they will never sell / be hired for anything!"

Is this true, or is it pandering? And is it even possible to be sui generis in an age whereby digital images of everyone's work constantly bombards us from all corners of social media?

The aspiring artist wants to be the greatest thing to hit the genre, and in her effort will latch on to what she thinks is the hottest trend that the industry is currently hawking. (Mermaids, anyone?) She will try to reproduce what her favorite artist(s) is doing and so becomes a copy-cat. However, the industry is rife with copycats, all trying on the "new thing," but, in the end they all end up, ironically, losing whatever uniqueness that may have allowed their work to stand out in the first place.  The work becomes just an echo of someone else's.

Start out by doing something different. Challenge the industry with your conceptions of what it -- and the world-- should look like.

A Case for College

You've already heard the argument that college is a waste of time and money for aspiring artists, but I would like to make the case for going to college. College--not art school.

Elsewhere in the blogosphere, some have proposed alternative educational methods and materials to achieve the technical skills necessary to work in the illustration field. For the cost of a few thousands of dollars, you can buy art books, seminars, classes with the "masters" and summer mentoring; they declare that an illustrator in the biz can be self-taught and fairly proficient after a period of dedicated work towards a professional portfolio. There are, indeed, a few big name illustrators who are self-taught and are living proof that this method can work. But, is this proof of the method itself, or is their success more a testament to their unique creative brilliance and sophistication? I would wager that even they would say that mere technical proficiency is not enough. It is not a guarantee of success even if you work your ass off.

So why would any aspiring artist go to college, spend all that moolah when she can get similar technical instruction on her own for a fraction of the cost of a brick and mortar school?

Because technical instruction isn't the same as developing a philosophy for a viable art practice.

(For the sake of full disclosure, I *do* indeed teach at a college, and so you may think my bias is economically driven, but that is absolutely nowhere near the reason for my argument.)

I was a self-taught illustrator for almost a decade before I decided to go back to school at 30. Part of not attending college sooner wasn't for lack of interest but more a lack of funds and time-- and, admittedly, some of it was bias against the "institution" of college. In that time, I had absorbed the art books, developed the technical skills, and had a ton of experience under my belt, but after almost ten years in the industry, doing the same work over and over again, it was obvious why I was so unhappy. With my practice no longer emotionally sustainable, college offered me an opportunity to study something new so I could get out of illustration purgatory.

So, my plan was to go to school, absorb all of the technical stuff for a job in another field, and begin to map out a new direction, maybe start at the bottom again somewhere in a lab...

And then the unexpected happened.

The introverted, socially oblivious, and ridiculously naive person that I was discovered that my real, actual life was more than just mastering a technical skill set and committing to memory random bits of esoteric trivia. Life is about being able to generate new and interesting ideas. Life, Art is critical thinking.

I devoured Philosophy, Ecology, History, Genetics, Feminist theory, and other disciplines, and these were intriguing to me merely for their own sake. But it suddenly dawned on me that these courses were the missing pieces of my art practice. Feminist theory specifically, helped me to develop the personal lens through which I was able to see how these seemingly disparate "other" kinds of study were crucial to making art. This discovery of the principle of integration is what changed my perspective about remaining as an artist; it is what allowed me to find my artistic "voice."

Besides developing the philosophical aspect of my work, It was the social experience that taught me more about what artistic skill levels I'd need to cultivate overall to move out of my stagnation and to reincarnate my art career. I found a whole host of interesting non-artists with whom I could associate: future scientists, musicians, actors, my professors, business students, accountants, nurses, all of whom shared their different and interesting thoughts and perspectives with me. Swimming in this milieu taught me more about human communication (verbal and non-verbal), the power of stories, and basic interconnectedness than I ever could have gotten in my own introverted bubble.

The technical fast-track, short-term quick-fix may put you in a career as an illustrator, but it takes more than that to create a sustainable art practice.

Is Fantasy Escapism?

I was at a women's symposium in Penn State in 2011, and after my talk, one of the lecture attendees asserted that F+SF is just plain "escapism." "Why," she asked, should we as feminists consider this [F+SF genre] as serious? What does it do for us except provide young people (read: males) with a means for fantasizing about sex? It is just a means for escaping reality!" Thus, to her, F+SF was a bad thing to be avoided and dismissed.

Recently, a young artist friend of mine writing to me expressed the opposite sentiment and illuminated for us the great utility of the genre: fantasy literature and art provided her a means of mental escape during a violent and ugly childhood. However, her current definition of the genre's use still extends mainly to cover what we might consider the typical-beautiful -- the light-filled, innocent, colorful images that populate children's books and fairy tales. That her use of it didn't go so far to include the genre's typical-horror (such as the work of popular HR Giger, designer of the Aliens trilogy) means that F+SF, like any art, is experienced through the subjectivity of one's own life.

These views are not unanticipated. To the first woman's complaint, I point in the direction of my friend's statement: the genre does indeed provide a place for escape from "the real world." As Jack Zipes has written in his book, Fairy Tales and the Art of Subversion, the fantasy genre has long been the place whereby the storyteller (writer) and listeners (readers) generate a certain psychic outcome for a reality that seems to lack justice. In early western Europe's era of feudal rule, where law and justice was a random occurrence, life was hard and bleak. Obtaining a just outcome for a wrongdoing was often not possible, so redress was sought by other means. Fairy tales and fantasy satisfied the need to feel that the world was right somehow and that life was worth living.

The main thing that I pointed out to the woman at the conference was that the genre provides an imagined space for safe existence. In addition to providing a child an emotional escape to a better family life that was full of love instead of pain, the F+SF genre was also home to the early underground LGBT movement: the mass market Pulp Fiction paperback genre during the 40s and 50s is yet another perfect example of the way in which this genre functions to allow that element which doesn't exist; for the unnamed, it is a place to be.

If we extend these rights to all seekers of the unimagined, then we must admit the less attractive underbelly of F+SF also lives there. All of this too, has a function, which I've discussed elsewhere on this blog.

The woman at the conference saw F+SF as just a haven for the unexamined privilege of a ruling class. While her assessment is absolutely right, the face of it is rapidly changing as the digital world democratizes the medium. This also means that there are more audience members, thus more eyes on monitoring the edges of the social contract and contributions made within all aspects of speculative fiction.

One last thought: imagining a better world for people doesn't mean you need to sugar-coat it. Children, in particular, deserve to know the truth of our world so that they can negotiate their way through it and out of harm's way. Safety of the escape doesn't mean that one turns one's back on the truth; it just means that one has to find ways to deal with it, let it out, find coping mechanisms for the ugliness. It means to find ways to not succumb to the darkness, but confront it, identify it, name it, and show it in all of its terrible aspects. This is how we can, as a social species, take evil's power away and reclaim it for the good.

Finally "Making It"

Those of us who enter any field of the arts recognize the phrase "making it." This is usually centered around the idea that once you gain a certain momentum in your work, that you've "made it." In the illustration field, it's about "breaking in," which means getting freelance work in the publishing industry.

For most aspiring artists, it's about being able to quit the boring day job and working full time at one's art. Others put a price tag on the achievement; making X dollars per year is the goal. For some it's all about recognition from one's peers and winning certain industry accolades. How do you define it?

I had a revelation recently that defines it yet another way. What if "making it" has nothing at all with the industry? What if it's purely about one's own satisfaction? What if it's only about the doing?

My own trajectory of "breaking into the field" long ago included a speedy 3-day transition from my day job as a house cleaner when I promptly got 2 books upon submitting my work to publishers (my first of many self promotional forays). Working in the children's science and educational market under the auspices of a well-known NYC agent, I began to define "making it" as not just being able pay my regular bills, but to have a "comfortable" life, ie. economic padding beyond an emergency fund.  After a decade of trying to get ahead, I became unhappy with my meager income, so I worked even harder; I hustled taking on more and more projects, really anything my agent set me (minus work from overtly religious institutions). I worked smarter, streamlining my technical skills even more, shortening the amount of seat time with time-saving strategies in design and facture.

Still, it wasn't enough.

I began to see that much of my frustration was borne of boredom with the science market. After 1000 or so paintings of Monarch butterflies, 1000s of paintings of the same big African Safari / Arctic/ Jungle fauna, 100s of images of the same species of flower under one's belt, one finds that one has painted them in every permutation possible --and then one begins to question the sanity of an industry that only uses certain commodifiable species over and over to generate its consumer base. It became imperative for me to get out.

According to my standards, I was no longer "making it" and this played havoc with my self-esteem. I felt like I was a failure. But at what? I was voluntarily leaving behind 20 years of clients and a solid reputation, but decided to strike out and try to "break into" another part of the illustration industry.

So, starting over....

Three years later, after having transitioned into to the F+SF genre, I am happier with my subject matter;  I am rejuvenated spiritually and my illustration practice is sustainable again. Teaching part-time at a local college, too, provides me with an important academic outlet that was missing. The additional income as an adjunct prof relieves the pressure on having to sell my soul; I can be choosy about what projects I accept as a freelancer. The bigger struggle, however, has been to redefine what it means for me to be "making it." No longer can I tie it to money or being completely self-employed, because teaching is something that I truly love and now wouldn't want to give that up. Neither can I tie it to recognition because I've walked away from those clients who used to ask for me by name. For me, real success-- making it-- has become the freedom to pick and choose the projects that I want to do. It means having the time to produce my own self-generated work in which my voice and my ideas are clearly represented.

How freeing.

Not surprisingly, "making it" has nothing to do with money, industry recognition, etc. It never has. It has to do with making the work. Yes, that's right. Every day that you get up and do your work is making it. When you come home from your day job, shut the door to your studio and get to work, that is making it.  When you produce something that you love, that is making it.

When it comes down to what you really get from art, you will find that there is no other substitute.

Odd Nerdrum

If you're an F+SF artist and you're not yet familiar with the great Scandinavian figure painter and fine artist, Odd Nerdrum, you're missing out on something great.  Nerdrum's work has a great affinity for the painting style the quality of timelessness that is contained in the works of Rembrandt, Civilius, Caravaggio, and Goya, and yet it is contemporary work.

 Self Portrait With Melting Eyes

"If you compare yourself with others, you lose - I am the hero in my own life." ~Odd Nerdrum, 1983.

Nerdrum's early work has a Modern/ Postmodern sensibility in that it deals with contemporary issues and modern settings, but that is where the work's art historical context ends. Because his work maintains painting as its modality, it aligns itself more closely with the spiritual and ideological underpinnings of Renaissance painters, employing such dramatic chiaroscuro lighting techniques of Caravaggio. His later work flirts with the artistic symbolist sensibilities of William Blake. However, telling the story of the human condition remains the insistent content of the work:

The Murder of Andreas Baader, 1977.

There is a turning point in his work whereby Nerdrum finds his particular voice.  Homey Scandinavian themes with Vikings now abound, and yet with this kitschy subject matter he has put his finger on a general aspect of humanity. He's tapped into the uncanny: a strange yet familiar feeling; scenes of twisted humans interacting with one another. Timelessness. These smells and human groupings are familiar to us.

The Water Protectors, 1985

"On the surface we are all profound and noble, but inside we are cruel and simple." ~Odd Nerdrum, 2007.

Here he humanizes and personalizes the simple mythology of Narcissus with a sweeping design that is simple and compelling:

Sole Morte, 1987

Nerdrum works with live models, friends, relatives, and often himself, which lends the images a certain continuity of form; these characters come from the same filtered, imagined universe. Here is another unusual and arresting composition, again using the power of three:

Man Bitten By A Snake, 1992

More of Odd Nerdrum's work can be found here http://nerdrummuseum.com/paintings/.

[Ed. note: several image links were broken and so this page was updated on 21 Oct 2016.] 

Art's Intent

Fine art practitioners and corresponding institutions have for a long time given the field of Illustration a bad rap. I mean, any of us who have spent any time in an art school or program has heard all too often the ridiculous idea that because illustration is "commercial" it's a form of "selling out." Aside from the fact that this is partly true because illustration often relies upon big industry like publishing to exist, here I would like to point out that any art that makes its living on the corporate pocketbooks (I'm looking at you, Richard Serra and your Wagnerian rolled-steel projects) is an acknowledgement that art requires some kind of commercial backing. And while it is exceedingly rare, there are those artists indeed, who *never* seek private funding and just make art through non-profits or purely for their own pleasure.

Why is one considered "selling out" but the other not? If we examine this bias more closely, we might begin to tease out the reason. I think it is found in the fact that meaning in Art is gotten not only from whatever intention the artist gives it, but from the un-intentional aspects that are embedded within the work, aspects of which the artist might not even be aware.

We can see how intention functions in a work of art as that of which the artist is conscious. It is all of the elements that an artist has studied and uses to carefully craft an image. The illustrator, very consciously, uses pictorial strategies to proscribe all aspects of an image, the color theory, the value structure/ lighting, the design, the characters, subject matter, environment, the perspective, all the drama, etc.. This is done in order to elicit a certain psychological or ideological response from the viewer who is typically of a certain demographic to whom the product is aimed. Successful solutions for a particular illustration job can end up being very much in demand so as to produce cookie-cutter variations if its end-product  adorns mass-market products, such as book covers. Of course, at this juncture we could and should point out that some fine art fits this description. The work of a certain "painter of light" is a good example of an artist in the fine art industry who has developed a very profitable "pop" formula. There are numerous examples of formula to be found in landscape, abstract, portrait, pet, and other kinds of genre art, which are successfully mass-marketed.

Let's also acknowledge here that illustrators who take commissions from commercial publishing companies are not creating "personal work." Illustrators are almost always being asked to create images to fit a particular text, which means that the subject matter is a given and it is the job of the artist to find an "elegant solution" upon which both client and artist can agree. This "intentional," planned aspect of art it is much more prominent a feature in illustration or other forms of commercial art. Submitting something other than what the art director wants is almost universally frowned upon.

But then something wonderful and mysterious can happen in Art.

The artist can plan out a work of art-- but if the artwork has even a little room to breathe, the piece will surprise us by asserting something *it* intends to say. Because the artist can never escape her ideology and values, nor can she scrub them from the practice of her work, the real meaning-- the true intent of the work-- is indelibly stamped into it whether the artist meant it or not. The artist can consciously build into it everything that seems to be pertinent to the idea-- however, the real meaning will be embedded into the piece despite the artist's conscious intent.

When I first heard about this idea it really baked my noodle. It seems a bit of a contradiction to say that even though the artist can be very deliberate to consciously corral all of the decisions pertaining to the subject matter in a work, the real content will be what is read by the audience.

There are many ways in which the true and underlying meaning of the piece is clearly read by an audience. How? Facture, the way the marks and effects are applied to the object, matters. Media matters. An oil painter is saying something quite different about how she sees the world than say, does someone who uses a video camera. The nuance of gesture, expression, or perspective / proportional shifts within the subject matter can suggest or add a particular meaning that the artist didn't originally intend but is there anyway. The way light and colors are selected and juxtaposed can drive an odd feeling that otherwise permeates the piece.  There is no way of telling what will give a work of art its overall effect until it is finished and seen by an audience that is not the initial audience of one (the artist).

Unintentionality is given primacy as the main aspect of art that makes it a very effective tool of human communication; it is what drives us to create. When our emotional and subconscious selves participate in the creation of our work, we end up with something that more closely approximates our original intent. The more successful illustrator will find that the trick is to find the publishing venues that trust her, that allow a little breathing room and some creative liberty for the artist to stretch a bit so that her artistic voice can rise above the din of the logistical requirements.

Read more about intentionality and unintentionality in art in Jan Mukarovsky's text, Structure, Sign, and Function: Selected Essays.  Ed. and trans. Peter Steiner and John Burbank.  New Haven: Yale UP, 1978. 

Fables and other Social Constructions

In 2010, I mounted my thesis show, Fables, at MICA. The premise of the thesis is that we humans use the power of stories and mythology to create our world; and more specifically, we use stories to construct gender:

MICA, 15 March 10

Fables, 2010. Thesis Show

Most people take their gender for granted, but we are all products of its hand-- perhaps even prior to being born; for as soon as our nascent bodies are perceived by our social network, we are designated specific clothing, room colors, and toys. We are taught how to act, to be, and to think according to the social codes of a specific culture that assigns us our gender. At a young age, we are given specific narratives to absorb as examples of experience, stories and images which have definite impact on our developing intellectual and emotional selves. For young people, this can influence the way we internalize stereotypical ideas of femininity and masculinity, beauty, body image, work, play, and love. For those for whom the gender stereotypes do not fit, the result is varying degrees of gender dysphoria.

(closeup of first several images on left)

This body of work is an exploration of the way we visually convey stories. I try to overturn accepted meaning, question assumptions, for the sole purpose of unraveling the mythology of gender as it is currently naturalized. Here, I am plundering the rich and freighted lexicon of stories that we have amassed in the western tradition by identifying the locus of power within the story and inverting it. Gender role switching, acknowledging hidden and unpaid work, making visible marginalized groups, and casting a spotlight on women's difficult choices concerning child-rearing, are a few of the ways in which my work functions to raise awareness of the hazards of being female in our society.  In this work I am also exploring a critique of the storytelling genres that have been used for the dissemination of such mythological tales, as these are tightly woven into the ideological underpinnings of folktales and the societies that created them. My experience as an illustrator and predilection for storytelling greatly abets my current ambitions.

Today, as I'm reassessing my trajectory as it is currently placed within the illustration field, I'm finding that I'm on a similar pathway and am continuing to question how gender and other social norms are constructed via our mythologies and stories, particularly within the F+SF genre-- a perfect contemporary platform which speaks to the average person who is immersed in our tech culture. Currently, I'm exploring a tangent concerning technology and how that affects our definition of what it means to be a human, a critical element of my studies during my second and third year at MICA. With this lens, I can explore issues of transhumanism, how we're becoming our technology, and how IT is becoming more like us.

It is my intention to be part of those who are building a worldview that offers an alternative way of thinking about how one can function as a human in a society. Changing any aspect of culture requires a shared desire on the part of the viewer to engage the work in a dialogue that sparks recognition and identification. A feminist praxis can contribute to the growing disruption of the status quo to create a window into a future where cultural and social change is imagined, sought, and inexorable.

(closeup of several images in middle)