So, what do you get when you have a German artist, an Austrian artist, a Canadian artist, and an Australian artist, post-experimental-arts-conference, in a pub?
Well... this:
"Disciplinarity according to Petra" by LW
Oh my! /
I haven't yet had time to absorb or consolidate the three (and about to be four) days spent at the NIEA Experimental Arts Conference. But this! Wow.
These ambiguities, redundances, and deficiencies recall those attributed by Dr. Franz Kuhn to a certain Chinese encyclopedia entitled Celestial Emporium of Benevolent Knowledge. On those remote pages it is written that animals are divided into (a) those that belong to the Emperor, (b) embalmed ones, (c) those that are trained, (d) suckling pigs, (e) mermaids, (f) fabulous ones, (g) stray dogs, (h) those that are included in this classification, (i) those that tremble as if they were mad, (j) innumerable ones, (k) those drawn with a very fine camel's brush hair, (l) others, (m) those that have just broken a flower vase, (n) those that resemble flies from a distance.
- Jorge Luis Borges, "The Analytical Language of John
Wilkins" in "Other Inquisitions 1937-1952", 1964, p. 103.
These are a few of my favourite things... /
I was recently lucky enough to have had the pleasure of a wonderful conversation with a like-minded creative soul. Over a couple of hours, we covered a vast amount of ground, exchanging artistic inspirations and stories. It made me aware of how much one can gain from sharing those things that inspire us as practicing creatives. Thus, with this in mind, please find some links to some very inspiring things...
...the genius (and perhaps madness) that is Theo Jansen...
This talk by Ganson is fantastic – he discusses his work with sincerity and eloquence. Well worth a watch.
The Long Now Foundation, which commissioned the above Ganson talk, has an incredible, and extremely far-sighted, project underway.
A planet /
Today is the twelfth day of August.
This day is a planet. It has a centrifugal force, which pulls the world in towards it. It is a day for open hearts.
This world is a strange place. Imagine if everyone wore their hearts every day, and cared, and didn't have distorted views of what they can expect from people and from life. T'would be quite an incredible thing to witness, no?
Coffee and the muse /
Sketchbook, French Tintin pages, piccolo, and croissant with strawberry and vanilla jam made by the cafe proprietor himself, to his German-Swiss grandmother's recipe. I think I'm in love (with the jam).
Since arriving in Sydney, I have spent at least an hour or two of a morning sitting in a lovely little French cafe, drinking coffee.
The first couple of days, this felt like an indulgence; I do have coffee most mornings in Melbourne, but it tends to feel like a form of procrastination, as if being in a cafe means important work is not happening elsewhere.
However, as I've relaxed into this place and found my rhythm here, I have come to appreciate the role that this time can play in creative thinking. Because I am not due to be elsewhere – I have no work to get to, no meetings to catch – I find that I sit there, relaxed, sometimes sketching, sometimes writing, sometimes just staring off into space. And in doing so, ideas seep in, developing softly, until inspiration eventually coaxes me back to the studio to work.
This shift in thinking – to appreciate the role of quiet reflective time, is Number 4 in a concerted effort to change certain thought patterns over the past few months. It is very easy as an artist to put work ahead of well-being, and as my practice continues to grow I have become increasingly aware of certain problematic thinking patterns that do not promote a sustainable, healthy approach to my chosen career.
Number 1 was in regards to exercise, in my case swimming; rather than seeing it as another chore that needs to be ticked off the list, I have gradually shifted my thinking to move it into the realm of relaxation. It is now something that I do when I want to relax and enjoy myself, which, not surprisingly, has seen a marked increase in the amount of swimming that has transpired.
Number 2 is more significant and more difficult, as it involves assessing the value of a day's work: rather than judging the achievements of a day by visible productive outputs, I have instead been attempting to simply say: “I know I have been at work/at the computer/in my studio all day, so I must have done a productive day's work.” I am still not particularly adept at this conviction, but it is on the improve!
Number 3 is a more personal shift, though still important to my practice. It involves exposing my vulnerabilities and sensitivities a little more. This thinking was consolidated by a quote I found a few days ago:
Fill your papers with the breathings of your heart
– William Wordsworth
In the majority of my interactions with others, I suspect I come across as independent, capable, active and strong. And whilst these are qualities that I hold dear, there is also the part of me that is incredibly sensitive to people and situations, and that I keep removed from most. I am now shifting this a little, attempting to imbue my interactions with others with “the breathings of my heart”, to respond, when appropriate of course, with openness and vulnerability. In short, to acknowledge this sensitivity as an important element of my personality, and to let others see it a little more.
And Number 4 is to actively bring quiet time into my practice. To create situations where thinking can happen softly and incrementally, rather than happening because it should. This aspect of practice is probably one of the first to go when we get busy. And whilst we can function without it, this week has brought to light its importance, highlighting how much its loss impacts on our core creativity. Let us all find time to muse. With coffee. And perhaps a croissant.
How to make a monster, and other bed-time stories... /
Earlier in the year I proposed a work for an outdoor sculpture exhibition on the Victorian coast, to be held in October. I was very lucky to be accepted, and was particularly excited about making the proposed work.
And then, as I began to work on it, I realised just how great a task I had set myself.
The work will be a tidally driven lever. It will lift water up into the air. With the current dimensions, it will require about one hundred and fifty kilograms of weight in the weighted float to lift twelve litres of water into the air.
Below are screen shots from the last few months of building this behemoth in the computer. There have been about five major designs, and within each of those several incremental design alterations. It is almost there. The next step is for it to go to my engineer, to be put through all sorts of programs to ascertain whether it can actually survive the open ocean. And I will then have to gut my studio to be able to assemble a piece which in total will be about seven metres long by four metres tall by six metres wide, and will weigh close to a tonne (the concern being that my studio isn't actually that large...) The construction will happen as soon as I return from Sydney, in the two weeks before installation. And then installation will require a good team of the best (with a substantial amount of muscle – any takers?) to get it in place. I really should get onto designing the LW install team uniforms that were suggested recently... although they will probably need built-in wetsuits!
It is going to be mammoth task. And it is scary making a work that cannot be tested in any meaningful way prior to installation. But I am still excited about the potential outcome. I really hope it works.
The proposed action, mounted on the side of the pier. The long lever is about seven metres in length.
Simple early geometry, April 2011.
Aesthetic beginnings.
Aesthetic progressions.
Version 2 or 3. I took this to the engineer and he was concerned as to its strength. Back to the drawing board!
At one point I decided to make a double lever, with each lever set on different tidal increments, in order to compensate for tidal differences - see image above and below. However, I did some figures, and realised I just couldn't afford to make two entire levers. I'm actually happier now with the idea of compromising with the ocean - the impact of different tidal variations is inherent to the work, and should be respected. Working with what is there, rather than trying to compensate for it, feels significantly more honest to the work and to its site.
Testing geometry for double lever on actual tidal lines.
Simplifying the design to reduce cost. Even with this simplified design, estimates came in many thousands over budget.
Detailing brackets.
Simplifying even further to reduce cost and production time.
The current design, August 2011 - fully assembled with frame to attach to pier. As soon as I generate actual drawings from this, it will be going to the engineer. Hopefully in the next day or so. Maybe I should actually paint it red and blue?
Where my head has been for the last couple of months... in this world of wire frames!
Current design neutral position.
Current design low tide position.
Current design high tide position.
Current design, detail of main lever.
Self portraiture /
Self portrait of the artist with brown paper*, #1
Well, as you can see, I have had a productive day of procrastination by trying my hand at some self portraiture. Unexpected? I agree. This has been to the detriment of finishing designs for the tidally-driven-steel-behemoth I should have already completed. But it did start me thinking about how we present ourselves as artists, beyond our actual body of work.
I was recently asked to do an interview to feature in the graduate brochure at uni. They also asked for images of my work, and studio shots of me making. Images of my artwork I have a-plenty, but I really struggled to find images of me making (despite JSF's fantastic photography library), and in particular, ones by which I would be happy to be portrayed.
This brought about consideration of the inevitable bio shot, and how we, as artists, present ourselves when we cannot hide behind our artwork. Having to either take, or select, a bio shot to be used for any purpose is a task that I find quite daunting. How do I decide what kind of impression I want to give? Do I want to look cool, or sassy, or intelligent, or happy, or melancholy, or artistically aloof?
Last year, when asked to provide a shot for an important catalogue, I provided a standard head shot; smiling slightly, pretty boring all-in-all. I then had both JSF and MW hounding me to use a more interesting one – one shot in particular taken on a beach. I eventually gave in, and in a fit of self-confidence, provided said image to the catalogue. This image was then used for an interview I did for Artshub, and is thus now associated with my name in several places on the net. Seeing as it's already out there, I have since used it as a standard bio shot myself. And whilst I like it as an image, it still sits a little uncomfortably in that it presents a side of me that I wouldn't necessarily have shown professionally a couple of years ago. I couldn't bring myself to submit it for the graduate catalogue – I just couldn't cope with the idea of using it in a context where I have students!
Is bio shot anxiety suffered by others? Is it consistent with practices in which there is an artistic product between artist and audience? And on the other hand, does it exist for performative artists? If your face is generally a part of your artwork, do you have the same dilemma? Or do you feel more confident to have your face out there portraying your work? And how about for those of you out there who are not artists at all?
Self portrait of the artist with brown paper*, #2
*note the important reference to brown paper from yesterday's post.
Specialising (preceded by a foreword) /
Foreword
According to a wonderful little calculator I found online, it is 541 days since my first and last post. Oh dear.
Upon arriving in Sydney last week, I had a conversation with the dear PT about whether I should re-start my blog whilst here. He stated his concern that blogs should only include images, because most of what is written on blogs is just plain boring. After extensive discussion, we came to the conclusion that if anything is to be written, it should fulfil the following three criteria; to be:
interesting
lucid
beyond reproach
I am not overly hopeful of my ability to fulfil such lofty standards, but at least it's something to aim for, right? I hope I do not disappoint, PT.
Specialising
Until my arrival here, I had been thinking about my ability to make work without my beloved tools, steel, workshop and welder. It dawned on me that I could try drawing. Drawing beyond my sketchbook. Drawing that is, simply, just a drawing, not a plan for a sculptural work.
I suspect I haven't actually done drawing for drawing's sake for at least a decade, so this was quite a daunting idea. (Though, amusingly, heading to the art supplies to buy materials that came in brown paper (!) did actually give me the sensation of being a real artist!)
How does one start a drawing? In order to get going, I decided to begin with something familiar: to do a drawing of a machine. A machine, however, that does not need to function in physical reality. A machine that perhaps I, as artist, can put some 'meaning', or 'poetry', onto, as I am loathe to do in any of my sculptural works (and which, in effect, goes completely against the grain of my PhD argument for sculpture that is generated through its own logic.)
I spent two days completing this drawing. And now I have a drawing for which I have no means of deciphering value. It does not sit within my specialised knowledge of the sculptural field. I genuinely feel out of my depth in ascertaining its artistic worth.
So, this poses an interesting dilemma. I think it is fair to say that as artists, we do tend to specialise, at least to a certain extent. As our body of work becomes more consistent, coherent and known, specialisation increases. However, as artists, we also aim to push ourselves beyond comfort, to find that which has not yet been created. Occasionally, this may mean we find ourselves working in a field well beyond that which we have spent many years perfecting, both within and external to university. In this unknown field, what tools have we to critically analyse our own work? Even gut-feeling, that which is perhaps at the core of an artist's ability to read artwork, stumbles a little, as it confronts self-doubt.
So this is my question: is it actually a lack of knowledge that prevents an ability to judge, or simply a lack of confidence when outside one's comfort zone? Or, potentially, is the former exacerbated by the latter? How much of our ability to criticise our own work is based in learnt knowledge? Or are we simply using well-practiced-gut-response to gauge its worth?
I think it best to finish this discussion with a quote I recall from my teenage years (I do not know who this should be attributed to, as my search engine skills have failed in this instance):
A specialist is someone who knows more and more about less and less, until eventually he knows everything about nothing.
Oh dear.
Machine for human interaction, #1