Art in the time of Cholera

They say we old folks -- I turned 70 this year -- are the most vulnerable to, and the least likely to survive, the dreaded Corona Virus epidemic. And so, self-quarantined, I find myself drifting into my studio frequently during the day in an attempt to amuse myself, distract myself, express myself...

But of course (and I already knew this) painting rarely serves as consolation. Instead it brings to the surface all sorts of quirks and insecurities, things most of us would rather not look at, but in such times, isolated by fear and "social distancing," we can no longer successfully avoid.

I saw a post on Facebook yesterday -- I don't remember who it was, who posted it, or where I saw it -- but it was a woman talking about the blessings of the pandemic, saying that it would be a gift, forcing us to look at outdated and no longer helpful patterns of consumption; forcing us to eat better to bolster our immune systems; forcing us to pay more attention to our families and our communities.

I love all that, and hope it will prove true, but of course much of that was said after 9/11 and we all know that went south, simply triggering more suspicion and division, more entrenchment and hoarding by the upper classes as well as more fear and resentment in the lower ones. At some level the election of Trump is but a symptom of the growing malaise triggered by the disparity between the haves and the have-nots -- a disparity that triggered 9/11 in the first place: how could we not have seen the attack on the World Trade Center as a furious kick in the balls of consumption?

But here we are, and however we think of those hard times, these hard times surely seem a harbinger of far worse to come. And maybe that anonymous woman is right: the blessing in the virus will be that we discover how totally connected we really are, and that forced into self-examination by seclusion we begin to finally realize how each of us contributes to the dissolution of humanity.

At any rate, it occurred to me today as I struggled with yet another unsuccessful canvas (by whose estimation, you may ask?) that perhaps -- if these are indeed end times for aged folks like me, I should articulate a bit about what I learn about myself in attempting to paint.

Perhaps no one but me, and possibly one of my daughters, would care about these discoveries. But hey -- I have time on my hands, I write way better than I paint, and I miss the social contact that usually occurs in my life. This way I get to keep talking and thinking, even if it's not across a table in a coffee shop, or chatting in a gallery.

SO. Today's observation -- not about the painting above, though it's a good example -- is that as much as I love the bold paintings of others, and long to be bold myself, even to the point of studying and taking classes from other artists who seem to have mastered this, I really struggle to do anything that stands out on a canvas. I can think of numerous reasons for this:

1. As the tallest person in the class well into my teens I already stood out, and tried desperately -- always-- to be LESS visible, not more.

2. As a geeky sort of child, I learned early on that my one really positive attribute was my intelligence, so of course I was terrified of looking stupid, as that would remove the only advantage I had to offer.

3. As the child of an artist who was very critical of my early attempts at art, I always hear that voice in my head: why would you put THAT there, or why would you put it THERE. And the echo -- who ever said you could draw? I mean, hey -- I didn't give myself permission to paint until I was over 60!

4. And I hear the voice of someone who once said to me, "You didn't even go to art school: what makes you think you know anything about art?"

So it's no surprise -- though I suspect most artists struggle with this at some level -- that every time I put brush to canvas there's this anxiety: is this the right color, how do they get the right amount of paint on their brushes when I always seem to run out before the stroke is finished, will this work, will it stick out, will it blend in, will it get lost... even when a canvas is obviously, decisively experimental the same questions arise, the same reluctance to fill the space with anything that might declare I don't have a clue what I am doing.

My most used tool is a sponge -- to wipe things away, to smooth things over, and I suspect that's a life statement. I want everything that stands in opposition to dissolve. But there is no sponge, no sanitizer, that seems able to wipe away the devastation that awaits us this time.  And however positive I intend to try to be, I can't help but be aware that I'm indulging myself with art in a time of cholera.