Some People, Jayne
Another scene from Jayne's ongoing story
The canvas was big; it filled the gallery wall. Though, given the gallery was a New York gallery, the walls weren't that big. The image was largely abstract, with relatively few colors but very distinct forms. I don't know the fancy art words to talk about it. That's Jayne's bag. I could make out the concept of a woman, presented in broken shapes, between cadmium red and some kind of ochre, against backgrounds of black and white, alternating in eighteen inch intervals.
I remember the first time I saw Jayne's work. I cried. I think I may have been having a rough week anyway. I didn't really know her at the time.
Some people, they make beautiful art. They draw beautiful pictures, make amazing sculptures, cast intricate bronze, and they do it all for themselves. They do it because they have a relationship with beauty. For these individuals, creation is both an incredibly personal act but also a rather anonymous act. They do not consider who will receive the art, who will taste it, see it, feel it, palp it, hear it, find it, wear it, mind it, sense it, know it, love it, fear it, share it, sing it, be it. The creation stands on its own. Jayne was such an artist. She created for herself, and in creating for herself, she created for everyone else, liberally sharing her vision of beauty.
I am not such an artist.
Other people, they make beautiful art. They shape finely crafted porcelain, they hewn exotic woods, they sweat glass beads of rare colors, shapes and densities. They fill homes and galleries with shapes and fixtures, designs and lights, sharing their talents with an audience who they know will receive their work. These creators do not create for themselves, out of a personal relationship with beauty, but they do create liberally, sharing their art with everyone, their intended public. They know and hope that others will sniff it, tear it, hold it, shear it, pack it, tweak it, wear it, think it, yes it, hope it, do it, smell it, want it, go right through it. Such an artist is Colette. She knows her work and knows the value it holds for others. She sees the social and economic role that her art plays, freely creating to participate on a society wide scale, making art for whomever can appreciate that role.
I am not such an artist.
When I create, I can only create with someone in mind. On the other hand, I have to create. Too much inside me needs to get out. Too much comes in. I suppose however, I am a selfish artist, an insecure artist if I can only create with an intended audience. Maybe that makes what I create more communication than expression. I don't know. Jayne was never this way. For her art was solely about expression, expression that she gave to something inside for no one at all. No matter how much I would create for her, not once did she create something for me. I accepted that as part of the relationship, something uniquely beautiful to what made us work, or not work. For most people art is fleeting and relationships are grounding. For her, it was the opposite: a relationship was something ethereal and art was real.
The canvas was big; it filled the gallery wall. Though, given the gallery was a New York gallery, the walls weren't that big. The image was largely abstract, with relatively few colors but very distinct forms. I don't know the fancy art words to talk about it. That's Jayne's bag. I could make out the concept of a woman, presented in broken shapes, between cadmium red and some kind of ochre, against backgrounds of black and white, alternating in eighteen inch intervals.
I remember the first time I saw Jayne's work. I cried. I think I may have been having a rough week anyway. I didn't really know her at the time.
Some people, they make beautiful art. They draw beautiful pictures, make amazing sculptures, cast intricate bronze, and they do it all for themselves. They do it because they have a relationship with beauty. For these individuals, creation is both an incredibly personal act but also a rather anonymous act. They do not consider who will receive the art, who will taste it, see it, feel it, palp it, hear it, find it, wear it, mind it, sense it, know it, love it, fear it, share it, sing it, be it. The creation stands on its own. Jayne was such an artist. She created for herself, and in creating for herself, she created for everyone else, liberally sharing her vision of beauty.
I am not such an artist.
Other people, they make beautiful art. They shape finely crafted porcelain, they hewn exotic woods, they sweat glass beads of rare colors, shapes and densities. They fill homes and galleries with shapes and fixtures, designs and lights, sharing their talents with an audience who they know will receive their work. These creators do not create for themselves, out of a personal relationship with beauty, but they do create liberally, sharing their art with everyone, their intended public. They know and hope that others will sniff it, tear it, hold it, shear it, pack it, tweak it, wear it, think it, yes it, hope it, do it, smell it, want it, go right through it. Such an artist is Colette. She knows her work and knows the value it holds for others. She sees the social and economic role that her art plays, freely creating to participate on a society wide scale, making art for whomever can appreciate that role.
I am not such an artist.
When I create, I can only create with someone in mind. On the other hand, I have to create. Too much inside me needs to get out. Too much comes in. I suppose however, I am a selfish artist, an insecure artist if I can only create with an intended audience. Maybe that makes what I create more communication than expression. I don't know. Jayne was never this way. For her art was solely about expression, expression that she gave to something inside for no one at all. No matter how much I would create for her, not once did she create something for me. I accepted that as part of the relationship, something uniquely beautiful to what made us work, or not work. For most people art is fleeting and relationships are grounding. For her, it was the opposite: a relationship was something ethereal and art was real.
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