Summary

An artist reflects on the romanticized notion of suffering for one's art, the challenges of making a living through art, and the nature of audience engagement, while recounting a conversation with a former student at her exhibition.

Abstract

The author, an experienced artist, visits the first exhibition of a former student, noting the student's dedication despite the mediocrity of her work. The student believes she must suffer for her art, a concept the author questions, especially given their location on the Cote d'Azur. The author muses on the subjectivity of art and the difficulty of making a living from it, recalling a friend's skepticism about being paid for doing what one loves. The narrative touches on gender dynamics in art appreciation, with the author observing that men tend to engage more deeply with her work, leading to meaningful conversations about life. The author values these interactions, which often revolve around existential concerns, and sees them as an integral part of her artistic practice. The piece concludes with the author's contemplation on the elusiveness of capturing the essence of an artist's life in a concise statement, emphasizing that living and experiencing life is where true inspiration lies.

Opinions

The author is skeptical about the necessity of suffering for art, especially when the artist's environment is as pleasant as the Cote d'Azur.
There is a perception that men are more interested in the author's art than women, which the author attributes to societal perceptions and gender roles.
The author believes that art is highly subjective and that success in making a living from art involves elements of faith, timing, luck, and trust.
The author values the deep conversations had with male passersby, which often delve into life's big questions, and considers these interactions part of her artistic practice.
The author suggests that the idea of suffering for art may be tied to the constant demand of being 'on' as an artist, including the less productive periods of cleaning brushes and sharpening pencils.
The author emphasizes that living life fully is a source of inspiration and that the artist's life cannot be easily distilled into a brief artist statement.

Suffering for Art

Conversation with a fellow artist

Self Portrait as a Full Moon. Painting by the Author.

The other night, I visited an old student at her first exhibition. The work is mostly bad — but her determination to make a living from her doodles shines through — radiating — blinding otherwise indifferent passers by into handing over cash for postcards.

She talks of suffering — she says that she is prepared to suffer for her art.

I ask her what that means — after all — here we are on the Cote d’Azur!

This confuses her — she thought she was suffering already — the six months straight effort that she has made for this show, on top of the day job. Her partner is understanding, but… (the inference being — for how long?)

What are you prepared to give up to realise your dream? Yes — everyone can be an artist but no — not everyone can make a living that way, being as it is, so subjective — so about faith, timing, luck, trust — and even then:

“Why should anyone pay you for doing something you love?” as a friend once said to me when I was starting out.

I quip to my ex student that being born near Manchester (where she is from), is all the suffering I am prepared to take in this life! She laughs.

I wish her well — but, as I walk home, I wonder why the myth persists that artists have to be seen to be struggling — suffering — to be declared legit?

We had both remarked on the fact that men are generally more interested in our work than women — wondered why. After all, neither of us are really really good looking! Perceptions again.

In my case, a woman of a certain age, obviously engaged and fulfilled in her own studio space — that happens to open onto a pretty street full of passers-by. A ready-made audience that I am lucky to have.

It’s the men I end up having meaningful conversations with — over my selection of works on paper, displayed in a way that stops them invading my sanctum. Some of them are collectors — genuinely interested in the work — usually pulled away by their wives/girlfriends who stand, tapping an exasperated foot whilst he tries to engage.

It’s often women who blank me when I say “Bonjour”. They flip brusquely through my offerings, avoiding eye contact — then leave, blindly forging their way forward to the next shop.

(I generalise — not all women! Definitely not the Scandinavians. The Americans and the Germans engage too. Genuinely.)

I find that if a man, of any nationality, stops to chat — we quickly dive into the Big Questions. Life, dontcha know! I do act as a confessional in this way and have considered putting up a notice with “ADVICE” written in large letters! Take it or leave it — if I am not in the middle of a project, I love the opportunity to put the world to rights with strangers — and it’s the guys who are happy to oblige. Often, they are worried about the future — specifically about their children’s future and how they will survive.

I agree. I hope they will adapt — learn from our mistakes — be better, kinder, greener — get off their pocket computers occasionally…I suppose that some men use art as a means to talk to someone — like a barmaid? Most women know this stuff already — and maybe would love their men to ask them for a change instead of confiding in some random image maker?

Mostly, these interactions have nothing to do with my art — and yet, they have everything to do with my practice.

Yesterday, a young French man (they never stop — ever!) told me that my work is beautiful — and he put his money where his mouth is by giving me cash in exchange for a piece that contains my whole soul.

How can I condense my art life into the required Artist Statement of twenty odd lines? How to distil my inspiration, my making — the constant “ON”? The days when you show up and nothing happens — when there is nothing for it but to wash brushes, sharpen pencils — listen to confessionals?

It’s living that inspires, of course — but how to find time for that whilst trying to catch the Muse?

If catching the Muse is the goal — go live! Find it hiding in conversation, observation, travel, meetings, disappointment, and failure…

Yes, but how to fit it all into our construct of the numbers of hours that constitute a day?

Should we not sleep??

Ah — there’s the suffering! I see it now…