Had an interesting encounter this morning.
While outside with my coffee photographing new work for the show at Solo bar. Rolled out of bed 10 minutes ago. Cigarette in my pocket to smoke before going back up inside.
An older gentleman walks past, then backtracks to have some words. Short, kind, eyes locked on mine. Offers some advice. Takes a few minutes trying to remind me of a certain painting, which I eventually deciphered as âthe Screamâ by Munsch. âThe Shout? It’s famous. It’s like thisâ â he holds a pantomime speakerphone up to his… ear, opening his mouth wide and staring at me, waiting to get the connection. It looks nothing like the painting. There are two kinds of art. He says. Art like that, and then art like mine. âThat dark, tortured art. Then yours. Yours is the art of flowersâ he says. I accept the compliment. Then he goes on:
âI live in the world of light. Do you?â
I nod, I guess, agreeing that my work is of a different flavor than, well, the âScream.â
âI tryâ I say.
âYou. You try. I live.â He replies, slowly. Meaningfully. Repetitively. âThat’s the difference. I live fully in the light. May I?â He kneels down with me â until now I’ve been squatting on the sidewalk, shuffling through the large watercolor sheets, and he bends down to spread out my artwork. Not very carefully, I notice – but I relax and let him look.
âJapanese,â he says, nodding. âThis is nice, the hands, the drawing…â but his finger goes up to the shock of black hair hiding an otherwise naked and splayed out figure – âWhy are you hiding? What are you hiding from?” He spreads out the other pieces I have – five in all. “In all these pictures you’re looking away. Why aren’t you facing the light?â
I cringe. âI hide the face for many reasonsâ I say. I wasn’t expecting an art critique so shortly after dragging myself out of bed. I start spitting out a short list, automatic, robotic:
âA lot of my work is like this. I’m interested in nakedness, and tattoos, and revealing and covering what we choose. By leaving out the face I add some anonymity â and the less you show, the more likely you are going to connect to the figure. It could be someone you know. I think we decide really quickly what we love and what we don’t by getting caught up in the details. Without a face the piece is more approachable, and there’s an invitation to help be a part of this story. I think it is entirely up to us to show what we want â I think it’s really interesting that you feel personally cheated … Blah, blah blah… art school jargon is still spilling out of my mouth when I’m interrupted.
âSlow down.â I now realized he had old ears – âSlow down, give me a chance to get a taste of your ideas.â I got excited there for a moment, listening to myself talk and actually, just talking to myself – and forgot he was even listening. Or maybe, surprised that he was trying. This guy is big into eye contact and pointing and speaking slowly, so that his wisdom can fully penetrate my young, eager ears.
âI was a waiter for 30 years.â He says, meaningfully.
âA what?â I heard writer, or reader, or, I dunno.
âA waiter.â He enunciates. I agree, that’s a great profession. A very important and rewarding job. One that I actually really loved. I was one for seven. So?
âSo I know people. And you’re hiding something. What are you hiding from? I live in the light.â Here he opens his arms wide in a gentle shrug, gesturing towards all of the glory of the surrounding shrubbery. âI’m a spiritual man. I live for family, for God, for light. Why are you hiding from that? Why don’t you show yourself? Why not open yourself up?â
I’m being patient, but I’m kind of ruffled, despite myself. I feel like he thinks I owe him something.
âThis is you.â He points at the art, then at me. âThis. Is. Where. You. Are.â Slow, full of intention, and I nod slowly, impatient. My feet are right here. Can’t you see that I’m right here? I blurt:
âYou know, I could make something that is pretty, idealistic, just like a fairytaleâ – I also gesture to the square hedges – and here I reveal my jaded, dead soul – âbut I’m not interested in that.â I pause. Trying to match his slow pace. âI’m interested in tension. In imperfections, in reality.â I’m imagining his idea of art being full of rainbows and Caucasian children dancing in an open field of flowers. With birds. Yeah. And butterflies. And sunbeams. That’s not fair to him. And that could be an awesome painting. Wow. What is wrong with me?
I’m irritated. I’m about to lose my cool. I’m ready for that cigarette and for going back up to the studio to get some work done. Why would he say these things to me unless he thought I were an anti-family, anti-light, cowardly heathen? Why am I suddenly so defensive? It’s okay, I can win this with logical, Buddhist non-dualistic theory! Instead, this comes out of my mouth:
âBy saying that, I feel like you’re implying that I don’t, and that I’m not. I don’t need to hear this from you.â Now I’m feeling I should have politely excused myself a while back. I start to gather my things, but it’s clear he’s not ready to leave. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s making me uncomfortable.
âI’m not an artistâ he starts. âIt’s clear that you have skill. But the hiding â it makes me curious.â Okay. Fine. âCuriosity is good.â I say. “Curiosity.”
He reaches out his hand, and I go in for a handshake, because I’m a lady, but he’s going for the fist bump. Then he attempts a cool handshake with me. I give up.
He repeats his name, points out his apartment building, and then, like I need it, says âI love ya!â – nudging me on the shoulder. He finally leaves. I’m still cooling down. I gather my things, shakily set stuff by the outside door, and am confused. Once I’m sure he’s gone, I light my cigarette and after a few breaths whisper, âthank you.â
“Thank you,” because in those moments following I realized I was really upset. Something about this encounter poked me in an uncomfortable way and stirred up a lot of anger.
I get offended because I feel patronized.
I have a fierce ownership over the meanings in my art, and am still surprised and dismayed when I feel they’ve been interpreted so differently than I intended.
And then, sickeningly, I’m grateful. Though not how he intended, I see this man as a teacher. Which I hate! I waited and listened to him politely for a deal longer than what I’ve recorded, and what for? To keep him comfortable. What the fuck.
I consider myself a diehard feminist. And through my drawings of women I’m able to step back as a bystander and observe how viewers interact with, granted, a representation of a woman. People will say things about art that they wouldn’t face to face with a person, and sometimes their concerns, frankly â concern me. I hear, âvulnerableâ âfragileâ âhidingâ and get all defensive, perhaps because I feel like those descriptors are seen in a negative light. Who’s to say what’s to be shown, and to be covered?
I don’t always have time to explain that I was raised religiously, that I have bodily shame and guilt that comes from a conservative upbringing, but also have an amazing Mama who always encourages looking inside for the truth, in trusting your gut, and in seeing beauty in yourself. I draw self portraits, and used to disguise them better, but am starting to realize, who cares? I feel like these are the most revealing parts of myself. So I get defensive when criticism is unexpected and not what I’d like. It’s entirely of my volition that I put these out into the world. It’s an offering to the insanely massive dumping ground of art and self-expression that we’re all dropping bits into. My simplest answer to the question of “why?” is: I just want to make something pretty. I know it sounds trite. But I’m leaving space for you to make that up for yourself.
See full post here: stasia burrington2014-10-02.