From time to time, I stop to think about the stimuli needed for artistic creation. Innumerable pages have been written on the subject, from every possible point of view, from how their times influenced an artist’s work to the way in which they lived their life. I t is often repeated that in order for an artist to express themselves with true freedom, they must be bohemians, they must live in a way that is different from their contemporaries; a kind of subspecies within humanity. Some have gone as far as to ostracise themselves in order to be “more of an artist”. Human nature is complex. If for instance an artist were to be schizophrenic, that would be an inherent quality. It is possible that they find a particularly creative streak during an episode; but anything that is created during that instance, it is so because of the artist in them, not the schizophrenia.
It is completely mistaken to believe that true creation is inevitably linked to the difficulties an artist may suffer, be it illness or financial duress. There is a stimulus that is born from necessity, but at the same time that necessity takes away from your complete physical and mental freedom. There are indeed moments when penuries make one look to creation as a refuge, but that doesn’t lessen the limitations they cause. The desire to survive, to eat, to rest comfortably, to be warm… they all persist in our subconscious mind.
In those difficult moments, an artist can find refuge in their work and create with rage, but the works will only be good if the artist is good. If on the contrary the artist is mediocre, the work will in turn be mediocre, with or without hunger.
Going back to the stimuli that act over art and creators, there is one that overrules them all and that is love. The power of love is immense, even infinite. It is so potent that it makes artists turn anything into beauty; even tragedy, in the name of love and despite the feeling of helplessness. Love as a feeling comes from the deepest interior of the human soul, which is also where art is born. That is why the triumph of a painter, a poet, a writer, a sculptor, a musician is in painting, in writing, in chiselling or composing. It is there, in the very moment of creation, unhindered, only slightly thinking about the past and ignoring the future. That is where the true triumph of an artist lies.
Once the work is finished and it can be contemplated by its creator… that is the entire prize that is needed; that is success. There is no need to indulge in a consideration of the work’s goodness or to fall into the unfortunate comparisons were are sadly prone to.
How can we compare a Monet with a Velázquez, a Goya with a Picasso? Each individual artist has their own beginning and end. No one can analyse from the exterior what is born from the interior of the artist. Not even the painter; for when the work is finished and presented to the public, it is no longer the property of the artist but a being with a life of its own. Much like when a mother gives birth to a child, an independent being with a life and feelings of their own, who will interact with their surroundings and in time develop their own personality.
Love, soul and personality… three sublime words that describe not only human beings but the works they create.
Love is essential to life; without love, life has no meaning. We each posses a soul, but it is our personality which truly makes every individual unique and different from every other person that we live with, that we form bonds with, that we love and sadly sometimes also despise.
The work of art is like life itself; it must be created with love. It must have a soul and a personality of its own. It must be presented to the public in all its purity to be able to establish that necessary communion between art and the spectator; and that communion will only be posible if the spectator is happily willing to experience it.
When I visit exhibitions or museums, I find it soul crushing how some people look at paintings. They stare at them in the same way they would a butcher weighing porkchops or a traffic light stuck on red. Red, amber, green… the three colours that indicate us when to cross the street. That is the impression I get when I observe many visitors: they go from painting to painting and all they seem to have seen is the traffic lights.
Jorge Rando, Malaga, January 2006 (Epiphany)