The Great Critique
“Have you ever heard of Mary Oliver?”
A soft voice of a friend uttered this question with so much enthusiasm across the room as she looked at my little grouping of paintings in a local small works show. They had been quietly passed over by most, and her interest made me smile. I couldn’t believe it, she somehow saw past the paint and perceived the heart of it. I exclaimed that not only did I know of her, but that I fervently read her poetry in the early hours of the morning most days, clutching to the observations of her daily walks in nature like a prayer. With giddiness she proceeded to tell me, “well you truly captured the feeling I get when I read her poems, a sacred connection with the natural world and noticing the spirit of the animals crossing your path. It’s plain as day!” We were tickled to death that of all the connections she could have made, that she somehow could find my secretive source of inspiration after ponderous glances. It encouraged me to know that we were on the same wavelength, that my art found her. We hugged and cried, kindred spirits in the vulnerability of creating.
“Who did these? They look like a high schooler scribbled them!”
The mocking tone caught me off guard, and I looked around the gallery room. I recognized the voice of an older gentleman, one who had really become a precious friend over the years. A professor and scholar, his opinion was valued due to the depth and wit of his observations in our conversations. I hurried across the floor, amused to see what piece he deemed silly. As I turned the corner, my heart sank. He was standing right in front of mine, pointing with a grandiose gesture of distaste. He had no idea they were mine of course, and I played the part of the sympathetic observer to a young and learning artist in my response, but inside I felt a bit of my confidence be shaken. Someone whose opinion I truly admired had spoken one of the first truly criticizing comments over my work. I’m sure he never noticed or discover that they were mine, hence the brutal honesty. And in that moment I had to make a choice. To open myself to the validity of his words, to honestly reflect on what he sees. The sweetness of the Mary Oliver question still rang in my ears, echoing the truth that both meaning and amateurism can exit in the same place. That the growing pains of putting yourself out into the world while still learning how to walk means falling but stumbling to wonderful places you’ve never been before.
Over the years I’ve learned that art is meant for both you, but also your second half, the viewer. I’ve heard many artists breath into podcast microphones that art is truly just a creation for oneself, and that the audience should never be considered. That way of approaching creativity has always caught me off guard. Is creativity only a selfish act of self interest? Is it not a delightful gift curated and thought of for the viewer? Can it be both? If your ego is so intertwined with the threads of a canvas, then how much more will it hurt when someone rips it apart? Slightly separating myself from any kind of emotional attachment to my work has set it free and released any kind of pressure or performance. Guarded maybe, but liberating. Then art is just play, a fun and expressive treat if someone finds it pleasing and connecting. I want to operate from a selfless place, and I’m sure commissions have reinforced that belief. The tears of joy on Christmas morning, the restoring of memories of a loved one lost. That is what truly motivates me and has saved me from constantly seeking approval or making a painting all about me. I’m sure my selfish years will come, when the chronic people pleasing finally dies and I can only consider what I want to paint with fierce individualism. Both can be true, and to everything there is a season. It’s a dichotomy that will always be in question, the motivation for creating and putting work out into the world. But the voices of critique and connection from last week still hang in the air, reminding me to not take myself so seriously and keep carrying on, one brushstroke at a time.
