Some beginnings are dark. Let's set the mood now.
(This song by R.E.M. was a plea from Michael Stipe to Kurt Cobain, during the 10 days or so that the latter retreated from contact with the world, and ended his life. Dark enough yet?)
November and December of 1994 were, up until recently, the darkest time of my life. Nikole broke up with me in mid-November. People close to me at the time said my behavior was akin to someone who had just gone through a divorce. To this day I don't know why it affected me so much. Break-ups are always hard but this one set me on a roller-coaster ride for almost the next two years.
At the time I was taking my first actual painting class. I was pretty excited about this class. Art was beginning its hold on me (see previous post) and painting was the thing. Picasso was a painter. Drawing was pretty much a precursor to painting. I was ready to figure this thing out. My professor, Avery Falkner, did a nice job introducing us step-by-step. First, get used to paint- black and white only. Next, add a couple of colors. Okay, now add multiple colors. All of it very representational- painting objects that look like the objects. Then, we had to paint a scene through a window and work on contrasting the interior light with the exterior light coming through the window.
I remember staring for hours upon hours at this picture- focusing on the blank wall. I was completely amazed at Edward Hopper's ability to use a myriad of colors to create what is perceived as a white wall with a shadow on it. Not just white paint with an area of grey- there are greens and yellows and purples and blues. It captivated me. Art (painting) was more than the object depicted- it was the depiction itself- the colors and textures of the paint. It is pure abstraction couched in a guise of realism.Towards the end of the semester, in late October/early November we were assigned a painting project that would officially launch us into abstraction. We were to find or create an object that would be the beginning inspiration for a painting. The painting would concentrate on abstract qualities of marks, colors, textures, etc. but still retain a trace of the image of our object.
Well, hindsight is 20/20. I had found these nails that were, like, 7 or 8 inches long. They were huge. I thought they looked cool and reminded me that the group Nine Inch Nails was named after the belief that Jesus was crucified, nailed to the cross, with nails that were nine inches long. So I took a piece of plywood and started banging these nails through it. As they broke through the back surface, the wood splintered and chipped, revealing the layers of wood and glue that make up the 'plys.' For added measure I tied string around the points of the nails. Sharp menacing nails, literally tearing their way through distressed wood, held together by a constricting tie. Yeah, Freud could have a field day with this image and the state of my relationship with Nikole. (I, however, never really studied Freud- I though everything was fine!)
If you've ever thought abstract art looks like crap- you should see it during the process of being made! Ugh. It was horrible! Painting and painting and looking and painting and perhaps scraping away... it can be a grueling process. But I was learning it is a very reflective process. When you are painting an object realistically it's easy to know when you're done... when you've included all the details and it looks like what you're looking at. With abstract art, you are propelled by a vague notion. You don't know exactly what it's supposed to look like, but you just know it's not there yet.
I remember one class period just looking and journaling... I'm not sure if I even painted that day. And I remember another day feeling that the way to represent what I was trying to represent (the mix of black glue and yellow wood that characterized the shattered plywood) was to repeatedly do a criss-cross pattern with a brush loaded with black and yellow painted. I just did the same movements over and over and over... it was a strange sensation- doing something that didn't seem to work, yet believing that if I continued doing that same thing, it would somehow work out.
And it did. In a big way. After struggling with what seemed like painted mud day in and day out for about 3 weeks...it suddenly... clicked. Nikole had broken up with me at this point- she dropped the bomb while I was in the middle of this project. And I remember all of a sudden standing back and looking at my painting. It looked like how I felt, and had been feeling that past month. Picasso had made a big triangle foot because it somehow depicted the horrific feeling that was the subject of the picture better than a realistic foot. It wasn't about the foot. It was about the feeling- the effect.
The fish was caught- hook, line, and sinker. I stood looking at the painting, a sensation like scales falling from my eyes, and the thought... "This is what I want to do for the rest of my life."
So I present to you... "Nails & String" (I deliberately did not want a heavier, more profound title)... and the song that was playing in my apartment when Nikole walked in on that 'fateful' night. The end... that prompted a new beginning.
