What’s the point of making Art?
And other musings about chickens and cushions.
Big question eh? What is the point of making Art? Or rather what is the point of ME making art? And that’s art with a small ‘a’. A large ‘A’ would be ridiculous!
This was the minor existential crisis that came up this morning as I wrote my Morning Pages. (More about the Morning Pages later but they’re a 3 page out-pouring of thoughts onto paper, first thing each morning - a process devised by Julia Cameron of ‘The Artist’s Way’ to encourage creative flow. Genius idea. Life-changing. But for another post)
Anyway … my thoughts went something like this -
“What’s the point of making art? Maybe there’s no point. Maybe there doesn’t need to be. Maybe the art IS the point. Maybe art doesn’t need a reason to exist anymore than I need a reason to exist. If my art is an extension of who I am - if it’s an expression of my thoughts, feelings, attitudes, whims, focus, love of colours, need to create, or whatever, then surely that IS the point. And the art I make is just as pointful (I make up words in the Morning Pages) as I am. On the other hand - if the art I make is pointless then that makes me kind of pointless too and … mmm? Let’s not go there. I don’t need to justify my existence at 7 o’clock in the morning. I’m as pointful as everyone else …”
And so it goes on.
Note to self: Remember that logic the next time you ask “What’s the point of the cat?”
Second note to self: Who are you kidding? 7 o’clock in the morning? This is lockdown you haven’t been awake at 7 am for 10 weeks!!
My daily painting practice has been the most amazingly mindful distraction and reason to get up (though not always dressed!) during lockdown—but that is also for another post.
Okay so I know the world wouldn’t be a poorer place if I didn’t make art. But the world would certainly be a poorer place if EVERYONE who made art stopped making art.
And what does it mean to ‘make art’ anyway?
Don’t we all make ‘art’ in our own way?
Don’t we all create?
We certainly make decisions every day that help create our environments—and our lives. Even if most people don’t think of it in that way—I believe we are all artists. Humans are creative beings. It’s just the way we are.
Even before I began painting I was in small ways creating my piece of the world. I nearly said ‘curating’. Ha! Where did that come from? It’s not a word I normally use—although it does have a place. There’s a recent trend for hipster shopkeepers to describe their stock as being ‘curated’. I find myself shouting (in my head) at the shop window. “Yes. This is a shop. Someone has decided what to put in it—and what to leave out. That’s how it’s always been. Get over yourself!!!” Then I go in smiling and curious and enjoy browsing all the beautiful things.
But if I were to allow myself a brief moment of mild pretentiousness then I could describe the bedroom I’m sitting in as a curated collection reflecting the loves and lives of its occupants: me and my currently gently snoring husband. (He doesn’t do the Morning Pages. Far to busy sleeping like a normal person.)
There was a time when this room was definitely not ‘curated’. This room used to look like a large messy cupboard with a bed in it. One wall was Rubik’s Cube green. Its previous 13 year old occupant having had high hopes for the other Rubik’s Cube colours on the other walls, floor and ceiling but the line was sensibly drawn after green. (Small mercies.) It would have been more sensible to draw it before green but that’s hindsight for you. And he was just being creative after all!
We did a room swap with said teen—but it was years of blinkered occupation before we decided to go crazy and ‘do up the bedroom’.
So now I’m sitting up in bed looking at all the decisions we made (can you look at a decision?) to create our very lovely … couldn’t look less like a messy cupboard with a bed in it … bedroom.
Dusky warm pink walls. Pale wooden flooring. Turquoise old-style metal bed frame. Simple white furniture from that exquisitely curated Swedish homeware store—you know the one ;)
All pretty standard stuff.
But what makes it OUR bedroom?
Well there’s the Fiona Fleming painting of the Tin Shed at Knockraich Farm where we wed in the sunshine—the Aberfoyle hills as a backdrop. What a day!! The painting brings it all back and makes me smile every time I look at it.
Then there’s the Ralston Gudgeon painting of a chicken propped up on the floor. (“It’s not a chicken. IT”S A PHEASANT!”) My husband likes it. I’m not so keen. Can you tell? But it belonged to Jonathan’s mum who I’ve just discovered had as much love for it as I do. Ah … so that’s why it’s propping up our bedroom wall. (Editor’s note. A quick google search reveals that it would be better propping up the wall in an auction!)
Then there’s the pretty, hand-painted handles we brightened up the Ikea drawers with. The curtains I made, and which will someday hem. (I feel a deal involving a chicken painting coming on …) The sewing machine which I bought as a 17 year old which went on fire 6 months ago but which I refuse to part with. No. Not even to be finally free of the chicken painting.
The Paisley pattern wooden printing block found on a trip to my old stomping ground in Portobello Rd, London. The Paisley pattern bedding. (Yes, I’m from Paisley!) The string of tiny red crocheted hearts strung around the bed frame—a treasured handmade wedding gift. The blue glass bowl catching the morning sun on the tallboy—another treasured gift.
The growing collection of Jono Smart pottery. Simple. Exquisite. A win-win way to support a local craftsman.
The bright pastel painting of my two beautiful boys at 2 and 0. It’s the copy of a photograph taken on the day Max came home from hospital. Callum grinning madly as he photo-bombed the new-born, vacant-looking baby. But Max got his own back 14 years later when he painted Callum with a Jo Exotic mullet!
There’s the handmade denim bag—prototype for my teeny Etsy shop. (Can you call one product a shop? Minimalist curation at its finest.)
The wooly patchwork cushion—my first, but brief, venture into the world of crochet.
The books piled-up at either the side of the bed. Self-help esoteric ‘nonsense’ at one side. Gritty Scottish crime dramas aka ‘Tartan Noir’ at the other.
The framed collection of pressed flowers from my wedding bouquet. A surprise present from my beautiful friend FM.
The guitar picks, the late Father’s watch, the currently useless loose change and business cards atop the old metal box containing family history papers going back to the 1920s.
Every item has a story attached to it. Every item is a reflection of who we are. Of our relationship. Our tastes. Our histories.
If you put this bedroom in the Tate it would be ‘Art’ (and that is with a capital ‘A’)—a Glasgow middle-aged couple’s version of Tracey Emin’s ‘My Bed’—which quite frankly just needed a good tidy-up and a couple of carefully curated scatter cushions.
I know, that when it comes to writing blog posts, this is the point when I’m meant to tie this up by referring back to the question at the start. So that it rounds off nicely. Leaves the reader with a sense of closure …
But I think I’ve rambled on enough for now. So I shall leave the meaning of art questions to another time. (Did you see what I did there?!)
Or maybe I can simply come to the conclusion that the art I make doesn’t need a ‘point’. Certainly not in the great big grand scheme of things. Making art is just one of the many ways I express myself—and that is the POINT! So I don’t need to get all over-thinky about it any more than I need to philosophise over my choice of bedroom ornaments. Although when it comes to Jonathan’s choice of paintings—that’s another matter!
So. Time to stop. Time to get dressed. Time to make some art. And time to get some bubble wrap around that chicken painting!
Caroline x
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