To Tend, as a Verb
I have felt neck deep in everything but art lately - the intense gravitational pull felt in the filling of every pocket of time the moment a second wriggles free. Tween drama, school bullies, flying solo for two weeks, something Covid-like, house stuff, life stuff, it’s all been pretty back to back. Sometimes a good thing for my art.
DCS discussions this morning were good. I have the sense the Grad Show has left us all feeling a bit out of sorts, discombobulated and in my case a bit confused and lost. I had tabled the subject of ‘skill and art’ some time ago and this came up for today’s focus. Clearly technical skill isn’t the bar for good art but it might be for some. Presentation is a skill that has value, clarity is important, lots of things. Roz talked about money facilitating better communication of ideas, Tom disagreed. We were searching for something. Clarity started to emerge for me when Tom said that he feels not that skill is important but care. Taking care over decisions, giving careful attention to the act of making and I wonder now also caring for the viewer. There was discussion around what that might mean and Catherine has a more anti-skill approach but I wonder if the word ‘care’ might have more meaning for each of us, as the work that resonates with me seems to offer a generosity, a sense of giving, like an offering. I recognise that the control/chaos nexus plays a large part in my own practice and care seems a worthy fulcrum in that seesaw that drives me so mad.
I have been pondering for some time the idea of tending my nascent garden: the word to ‘tend’ comes up in the context of those quiet, middle aged pursuits involving training a Clematis up a wire support or mixing a bottle of vinegar spray for the black spot on the ramblers. I feel the word tend has a rather beautiful poise that I seek in relationships, navigating the unrulier aspects of life, finances, hard decisions and whatnot. I wonder about tending my art - gently pruning, dead heading, nurturing, watering, whispering lovingly, tenderly encouraging new growth.
I am beginning to see that generosity in art for me means small gestures in care and respect. I am learning to be a more generous participant in others’ art with a warmth of spirit and tolerance. I am learning to spot kindred spirits in the practice of ‘care-ful’ art in a much wider spectrum of artistic practices and I hope to graduate soon to a more open minded and open hearted attitude to art that sits less comfortably with me. I still baulk sometimes at some work and I suppose that’s inevitable. But I hope to remember to hesitate a moment and see if the work just needs a little generosity and patience before it’s ready to squeak back.
I feel that nonetheless we each have skill, in different ways. I think Roz has enviable skill in her mastery of materials, her tenderness (‘tend-erness’) and the way in which her work feels entirely uncommon and yet benignly welcome, like a small, good-natured being from another universe landing on a park bench next to you while you both sitting there curiously but happily in amiable silence. Catherine’s skill is her energy. Her work feels hot, kinetic, in a state of excitable charge, like a restless river of process with its purposeful but many tributaries. Tom’s is courage in this free-fall choice to leave seniority in a well respected field and embark on a beginner’s journey in the murky, shark-infested waters of visual art. Whilst this is beginning to sound a bit Yellow Brick Road, I hope we can recognise our skills if we want to call them that, and maybe meet our own Wizards at our Grad Show next year. Will we slay the witch and find our way back home, we all wonder. I need to allow my skills to reveal themselves and with tenderness and care I hope I will start making good work.
I feel a bit lost in my work at the moment though, tired and a little beaten up. After a year of chain sawing down the garden into the compost heap, chain sawing my art into a pile of splintered fragments and chain sawing most of what I felt and believed in art, chopping myself up with it, I feel ready for something more sustainable, more nutritious. I hope my second year is more tender with much less bloodshed. Quiet tending, nurturing and encouragement will be my pillars.
‘The Earth is a Boneyard’ | 12x10” acrylic and oil on canvas.