The process of creation never ceases to fascinate me. To cause to exist that which previously did not — that is divinity itself, transcending the realm of what is perceived to enter that of what could be conceived and bringing those fruits back to the realm of the first.
God-like, perhaps. But we do not create as gods. We never fully know what or why we create, or how — even the when and who are up for debate after a quick, thoughtful survey of the causes/effects that go into each creative endeavor. But still we make things and call ourselves “creators.”
And yet for all this the creation itself is not the point.
From David Shrigley: “The artwork is the residue of the process of the project, rather than something you see and then afterwards realize.”
The process is, if I dare sound flimsy and cliché, the art itself — the created object is but the side effect, the leftovers of said art.
I am sitting with this idea these days, letting it soak into the recesses of my mind and peel back the ego-driven layers of “I am an artist” and “Look at my work” and “This painting matters” that so easily become an anthem cry whenever I emerge from the throes of the creative process, my shaking hands gripping one small essay, one little sketch, one snippet of song. So often there is absolutely nothing to show for the struggle: when there is something, anything, I yearn for someone to acknowledge the torture it took to birth said creation. I want them to see what I made. I want them to appreciate it, to understand it, to love it.
And yet that was never the point, and never should be. That created thing, despite my sweat and curses and tears, is nothing but the residue.
Art then, from this perspective, is time-bound, subjective, imperfect. It can only be lived — it is the being and doing, not the thing that is made.
Perhaps one could say this “residue” stands as the testament to a particular mind, the proof of a way of life, the visual or auditory manifestation of one’s inner being. Fair enough.
Sometimes this residue is the outpouring of a soul, a response to something internal or external, a message in a bottle thrown out as far as one could — or dares to. One takes something one cares about or believes in, or wants others to feel or believe in, and translates the abstract into something tangible (or nearly tangible). An attempt at communication that is sometimes (and always only somewhat) successful.
This remainder may be valuable to the artist and prized by others; it may mean something on its own or in relation to its maker; it may even say something on its own or provoke certain responses from its audience.
Still, I could not shake off this thought: that somehow all that does not matter quite as much as what the creator went through to become the person who does leave behind such leftovers — the story of the person, of the choices and the struggles.
* * *
“Now,” murmurs my professor; “now you begin to understand abstract art.”
I give an enigmatic smile, and nod.