| Sunny Side Up, August 13, 2003 �2003, Kathleen Gibson To understand the art, know the artist My friend Carole is a visual artist. On my last visit to Nanaimo I toured her working studio. An easel stood in the corner. Unusual tools and creations in process filled the work surfaces. Finished art decorated the walls. Sketches too, and project ideas. I think of Carole as a 'wandering artist.' Paint is only one of her mediums. She makes paper, carves lino. She collects odd things and assembles collages. I sifted through a box of early twentieth century corsets and bloomers. A ghastly rubber girdle lurked at the bottom. Pink. "Ugh! What will you do with this?" She laughed. "Isn't that horrid? Imagine wearing that to dinner! I don't know what I'll do with it. I'll find something." She will, too. Some of Carole's work is pretty obscure. If I saw it a gallery I may be tempted to shrug and walk on by. But because she's my friend I get the inside story. Those odd sculptures of weathered fence boards? They represent the sexes, she told me, and our disparate preening habits. They won awards, those two. Every artist I know-visual or not-creates to communicate. To make a statement, tell a story, ask a question. They have something to say, and they express it in a myriad of ways. Paint on canvas. Musical notes on parchment. Carvings on wood, stone, ice or sand. Clay on a wheel. Sound, light, and motion on stage. Artists specialize in the intangible-the responses their works create in those who experience them. But they use the tangible to create. With finite things, they gamble on the infinite. With limited resources, they offer incomparable richness. And within the framework of time, they strive to suspend eternity. The works of those who come nearest to succeeding are prized and protected long after their makers have stopped creating. I recently visited a gallery where hung the paintings of some of the great Impressionists-Degas, Monet, Renoir, Cezanne. Visitors wandered, lingering. Gallery stewards stood watchful to chide those who sidled too near. Puzzled, I stared long at a Monet painting. Standing a foot or so away, I traced the outline of one of its components in the air with a pen. Why, where,�how? A guard stomped over. Nearly knocked the pen from my hand. "NO, you mustn't do that!" he exploded. Properly chastised, I retreated. I've since thought about the difference between how I see the works of Monet and those of my friend. Carole eagerly explains her work to me. Monet is a puzzle. Distant, unreachable, fiercely guarded by those who think they know him best. God, the Divine Artist, communicates too. In every brush of his hand across creation he writes love. In every freshly minted human being he stamps his own image. Those of us who are his friends understand his message and rejoice. But sometimes, zealous to protect, we chase others away. Those who, seeking to understand, dare only to come close and ask questions. Forgive us, please. You can respond to this column at [email protected] |
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