Artisthood

Once an artist has achieved "artisthood", he
is infallible. All his work is of the same standard.
It is all great, whether it really is or not.

You paint a picture. And then you look at it. "This is really not so good", you think to yourself. Or, "I like this one!", or, "This one goes under the bed." Whatever.

With every picture an artist creates, he or she has a reaction. The work fits somewhere on a scale from "lousy" to "the best I have ever done." And we have the same response also to the work produced by our friends and other artists. Work is judged for what it is. Good harmonies, lithe brushwork, accurate proportion, dramatic atmosphere, and a host of other criteria. This is normal. Every artist who has ever worked has known some good works, some great works, and some (hopefully not more that about 10%) failed works. Every artist.

So why is it that when we look at the work of Mondrian, for example, that we can not point out one good piece, nor one miserable one? And not only Mondrian, but also Picasso, Miro, Warhol, Koonz , even Van Gogh and now, Frida.

I was talking with one of my models about Frida Kahlo, and the recent movie about her life, a movie which I have not seen, for one simple reason. "I don't like her painting," I said, to which my model replied, "But she had a really shitty life..." Sure, but what does having a really shitty life have to do with your art?, I have been wondering.

Everything, it appears. Van Gogh had a really shitty life. So did Gauguin. And Jackson Pollock. And Damien Hirst. Of course, for "had a really shitty life", read, "was a really shitty person". And so they have achieved the artistic equivalent of sainthood, "artisthood".

Like sainthood, artisthood confers infallibility. One day you or I might achieve artisthood. When that day comes, you will no longer be capable of being human, of doing excellent or substandard work. All your work will be great.

That this phenomenon exists, is certain. What is in question, is whether this ideal is in fact desirable.

You see what I am getting at: It is the deepest desire of every young artist one day to be one of that glorious brotherhood, the great artists.

But what if by getting there we lose our greatest gift, our fallibility, our humanity, our weakness? What if our greatest desire is in fact the embrace of our death as an artist?

I would so like to give an answer to this question, but I am not sure if I can. I could tell the elemental story of Professor Carel Weight and his struggle with the evil Saatchi brothers, but for now all I can do is to quote from memory the words of saint Paul, "Not in my strength do I glory, but in my weakness; for when I am weak, then I am strong," and hope to find something there.