Of Masterpieces & Scraps

And The Art of Precise Vomit

I don’t want to get too mystical but I think this is worth quickly noting. This last year or so a strange, coincidental thing has happened on more than one occasion where I have pondered about what (or rather who) the STSC roster is missing to take the project as a whole closer to that next, higher level. And then said person has materialised, as if by magic.

I distinctly remember thinking that it’d be nice to have someone who writes essays about art- real critical, learned, written-from-a-place-of-experience essays about visual art and being an artist and how this can be extrapolated to other forms of creativity.

And then

Judson Stacy Vereen

joined our motley band of writers and artists. What a wonderful stroke of luck. Or maybe it wasn’t luck, maybe it was just meant to be.

Enjoy.

TJB.

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Film still of the author as Vincent Van Gogh, from a work in progress film

Often enough I come across some words that attempt to describe what all this so-called “art” that we make is supposed to do. What art is supposed to mean and what it means to make art. In this descriptive and difficult process, there are also many words on humanity, enlightenment, transcendence, etc. Many times, I say this is probably all well and good. I mean to say—fine. It will do. But as in every conversation or description, there is something lost in the verbiage. Yes, our words fail us, much of the time.

It is only in very precise moments do we have the ability to aptly describe or express the nature of things as they truly are. And just when you think you have got it right, just when you think you have said something that will reach today and perhaps some far flung tomorrow, someone will come along and remind you that your words have either failed or what you said is dead wrong or even quite stupid. Suffice to say, the artist must trudge along anyhow.

The writer, or painter or poet etc. (I make no distinction at the moment between them—artist is artist), must know, first and foremost, that their strokes, whether they be on the keyboard or the canvas, will likely miss the mark among a large swath of observers. The larger the swath, the larger the kaleidoscopic shattering of meaning. There is nothing to be done about it. Only to speak clearly, or wildly, or absurdly as one might, in hopes that at least you yourself may have gotten in some kicks, have become in tune with what you think, how you think, what you feel and how you feel. In many cases, it is the act of creation that allows you to understand this aspect of yourself. Therefore, the act of creation is an experiment through which we find and craft our very own understanding—largely, of ourselves. The artist creates themselves.

So, in the conversation concerning art, as I said before, something is likely to get lost and as funny as it is, what mostly goes unsaid is the creative human behind the work. That is, the artist. How comical it is, and typical, that the initial human spark of the work is forgotten, ignored, unmentioned, and the vomit that is created, the soul’s mandatory upchuck, is now debated, deliberated, picked apart, thoroughly dissected, and in many cases to such an extent that it causes the works own demise in the eyes of the viewer as well as the eyes of the artist. This is why, I take it, some individuals have such an apathy (and sometimes celebration) towards Artificial Intelligence in art—they have no concern for the process or individual, only for the output. Only for the “thing” in its physical or visual form. Either way, we take too much time for the meaning of the piece, rather than the meaning of the process.

Yes, we are too concerned, preciously concerned with meaning, intent, and the true objective of what art is supposed to be. In that way, whether we intend to or not, we become critics. Stirring ourselves in a frenzy over interpretation. Forever grappling with every nook and cranny of potential meaning that a piece could possibly have. This is rather silly, and I say, in many cases, it is nonsense. But we are no strangers to nonsense, that is for sure. If one looks at a wildly abstract expressionist painting and says it is absurd, or worse, that it is not a painting at all, then we might also say this painting is nonsense.

But a painting of a vase of flowers is just as nonsensical. Flowers exist. They offer us their fragrance, they offer us the spectrum of life and death that we can even understand, right before our eyes. Also, they offer their beauty in shape and form, in colors pedestrian and blazingly exotic. When they die, we do not mourn them, per se. We talk about how graceful their death looks and feels. And then someone comes along and wants to “paint” them. To render them. To “capture” them. This, truly, is just as absurd. You cannot capture a flower anymore than a photo can “capture” the sun. It is truly remarkable how the world is full of facsimiles, when we so often miss the real thing, even when it is just outside our window. Just right within our grasp. But I don’t make any bones about paintings of flowers, I have painted them myself. I just wish that people understood better what I mean in relation to abstraction, but I will likely convince nobody. I am merely writing for sport—I won’t campaign on behalf of much work—hardly even my own!

To speak of the role of art is to destroy it. We have made much noise over meaning. Everything must mean something. We do this with our lives—we become distraught over patterns, find them where they do not exist. As for patterns, many film lovers nowadays lament the fact that after the second act of many films, the viewer can simply turn away. Because the film has become a pattern so recognized that its conclusion can likely be predicted and therefore useless to stomach through. This is not necessarily a matter of film, but a matter of how patterned and structured our storytelling has become.

We search incessantly for either symmetry or asymmetry in our predicaments in order to sort out solutions. We want so badly for meaning that we create it. But one must ask, I think it is fair, “what is our relationship with the meaningless?”

Instantly, you may think of nihilism, but this of course gives a name to a type of meaninglessness, which in turn, gives it meaning. No, that is not what I am referring to at all. When I say “meaningless”, I am referring to the spirit of the absurd, the activity of leisure, the ability to play and be silly, the sport of playing stupid for stupid’s sake. Also, the act of creating without adhering to anyone’s preconceived idea about what an artist is and what an artist is supposed to do. That is to say, what a film, a joke, a poem or a story are supposed to accomplish.

I am now reminded of a joke my father used to tell:

“This is a serious question, and I want you to think about it—what is the difference between an orange?”

This joke has no meaning and it is only meaningful in its disappointment. But it disorients itself. It becomes an anti-joke. No use in providing verbiage on it, it either convinces you instantly or it fails. But the joke remains, and takes little care of its audience. It is an anti-joke, but it is not anti-humor. There is no anti-art that can be made. All that can be said to be anti-art are those who wish to destroy work by either philosophy or arson. I had an interaction recently of someone who declared much of our current art as anti-art. I would like to as him: to those who created the pieces, whom do you think they would declare the anti-artist? Themselves, or you?

And that is more to my point. The Audience. The artist now has been convinced that they, for one, need an audience, and two, that they are deserving of an audience. So, as good little capitalists that we often are, we then orient our work precisely with the audience in mind. We want to think that we can unlock a mass chain reaction out of the populace that will somehow lead to publication deals or the auction house. We may even let ourselves be told what an artist is and what “art” is supposed to do. Chiefly among those who do this, there is often a moralizing of beauty and truth. It is not enough for them to say something is ugly or misses the mark, but that it is akin to a kind of evil.

As I wrote in my open letter to artists, Candle in The Rib Cage, we probably did ourselves in when we gave art a name. Even worse, when we declare that it must have a distinct purpose, that there is some problem somewhere, that art can solve. That if the world is in a box, it is art that may liberate us with its songs and rhymes and hues. But it is not so. The world is always in a box, always in a foxhole. Art is something else. Once we lower our expectations that it will somehow save the world or us from it, then we can enjoy art and the making of it. Art cannot save the world, but it shows us that we can each save ourselves, and there are plenty of ways to do that!

When it comes to art’s saving grace, I have spoken like this myself, but with a notable distinction—it is the artist that liberates not the world, but themselves. The artist can do nothing for anyone. The artist, if they are doing anything, is acting towards a state of liberation. What is liberation? What is liberated? Go ask, and tell me what you find! You may get a million different answers or a million shoulder shrugs. The artist can liberate themselves, and therefore show the world that yes, one can be liberated. But how many folks are walking around pondering liberation? The best way to keep a society docile and stupid is to keep telling them how free they already are. So, when the topic of liberation comes up, they only shrug their shoulders and say “what liberation?”. But these are mere words, and they fail us here.

The “art” that we create has no purpose other than to decorate the halls and living rooms of mansions, lawyers’ offices, and gives museum curators and docents something to do. Of course, once sold, it may also put a little money in the pocket of the artist, who needs to eat and pay rent, etc. But art is not an alive thing. The best of it may feel alive, or better yet, instill the feeling of life within the observer, but it is just exemplary of the pursuit. It is, in essence, only proof of the creator’s existence. A painting cannot “live” anymore than a chair can “sit”. Painting is dead. Words are dead. They are only alive when they are being formulated. When the key is plucked or the paint stroke is in motion. These are acts, verbs. Not objects, not nouns.

This is not to say that art has no meaning or objective. It is to say that is has infinite meaning and infinite objectives. There is such a thing as meaningless art, but it has no less meaning than meaningful art. The same way that when someone decides to have a day of leisure, to sit and loaf around and do nothing, we can understand that they do it for their soul. This is meaningless in a capitalist way. We much better prefer the one who goes out and works themselves to the bone, earns some money, and has something to show for their effort. But the day of leisure, however meaningless in one system, has meaning in another. One system says “rest your soul, you don’t always have to be doing something”. Another system says “get back to work!”.

It would be rather pathetic to go around to museums or galleries and tell the artists that they are doing it wrong! That you are not doing your job! … Job?! If I wanted to have a job, hell, the last thing I would have done is become an artist! You think I am doing all this because I wanted a job? To be told what I need to do or what my work should strive for? It strives for itself and its maker. Its jurisdiction is only the space and time that it inhabits. There is art that I don’t much like at all, but alas, some things are just not up to me. It is between the piece itself and its maker.

The artist, if they do anything at all, will orient themselves inwardly and let the observer in on that act. It is the push and pull of the introspective and expressionistic. Also, there is therapy in the act of creation. Sappy as it may sound, it is the soothing of the soul that is often the spark of much creation. Whatever happens after that, is often the byproduct of some sort of therapy. Why do you think so many artists go berserk? They are the ones most desperate and in need of it. And even art making can fail us. There are never any matter-of-fact solutions to human despair. We are all clutching at straws, doing our best not to slip off and do something stupid, something that cannot be undone. Perhaps nothing will be accomplished. We may just be staving off the inevitable, kicking the can down the road until tomorrow or the day after. Still, I say it is all well and good.

Currently, there is much talk about censorship. Censorship and audience. We crave an audience, artist or not. And with all this theorizing on censorship and the freedom to speak freely, we are being captured by both. We are so captured by the idea and fear of censorship that what we do is censor ourselves preemptively! We see censorship from the viewpoint of what is allowed and not allowed, in black and white, plain as day. But we may be better off viewing it as a kind of miasmic fog, a type of attitudinal virus that plagues us without much loud tormenting. It is a silent type of thing. It drifts over us and we find ourselves afraid to speak what we think or how we feel. This is typically in the arena of the vocal;  politics, social problems, political correctness and governmental critiques. But just as importantly, it also affects aspects of taste, aesthetics, humor, and style.

With audience and self-censorship, there are many artists who tow the line in their paintings, opting to paint in a style that is in vogue, in the hopes of appealing to a pre-established audience and their tastes. Music, too, is often stylized in this way. If your work hangs in a gallery or is heard on the radio, the chances of this are almost a certainty. However, it is in writing where self-censorship, stylistic self-censorship is often most brutal and most damning. What do I mean? I mean we edit our pieces to death. Especially in the context of the essay. And we likely do this not for ourselves, but again, for a perceived audience member—that is to say, out of fear of getting it wrong. If we write too long, we may lose the reader. Too short, we fail to hypnotize them. Too bland and we have risked nothing, too brash and we give offense. And in this push and pull, this cutting and slicing, I think we lose a bit of ourselves. And of course, to lose yourself to an audience is never for the good. I say this with a bit of haste, a bit of imminence, because of where humanity is and with the observation that much mystery lies not only within us, but all around us. I say this in terms of the modern world, in the year 2024. Whatever audience I may have now or may cultivate in the future is little concern, because I declare that I write for me and not for them. My audience may already be dead and gone, they may be living, they may not be born yet. Still, I write in the year 2024 and do so in response to the ills and challenges that plague us in the here and now. Even when I write an open letter—I am doing so for myself!

To edit too much, to seek out too many opinions, to relegate ourselves to self-censorship, either in content or style, political correctness or taste, is to rob ourselves of experimentation, of therapy, and is to potentially exclude from our writing, our work, precisely what we wish to find, precisely what we are seeking. Perhaps there is room in the world for sober writing. Words that are deliberated over, extraneously edited and culled, perhaps there is room for that now, say in the novel or the textbook or some updates to a country’s constitution. Also, law and copyrighting as well, require some hefty editing. But truly, how much of one writer’s work is done to fulfill the pages of an unfinished novel? Every novel is an attempt at a masterpiece. Of course, most novels will fail in this regard and with all the great historical work published and forthcoming, it is easy to see why this is the case. But a writer or a painter cannot churn out masterpiece after masterpiece, if they ever make a masterpiece at all. Mostly, we make scraps! We should hardly concern ourselves with masterpieces. Usually just bits and pieces here and there, that one could identify as notes, letters, essays—feathers in the wind. In many cases, this may be where a writer earns their chops, the same way an artist earns theirs in the pages of a sketchbook.

Perhaps it is because I am a painter that I see it this way. And it is only how I see it. Every word of mine can only be taken with a grain of salt because I am only me, and I could just as well change my mind on it tomorrow. And how I see it is this:

I am only writing. But I am also vomiting. It is precise vomit, but vomit nonetheless. You can do so courageously and convincingly or you can edit your work down to a timid puddle where it once was a terror all by itself. In this way, all my writing contains myself and my very own confessional spirit. If writing, to me, is a means of confession, then overediting will cause too much deliberation and too much headache. Might as well not write at all.

As James Baldwin once said “To be an artist is to tell the whole story, the whole truth, to vomit the anguish up”. I have said just the same here, but in my own roundabout way. And I believe that roundabout, that rambling nature is exactly where the art lies. That is the music of it. It is the libretto of my current state, the staccato of the beating heart, the arpeggio of the moving fingers that fulfills me.

Awhile back, I offered “Nero’s Violin” to a publication for their consideration. I was sure it was appropriate for them, line edited for grammar and spelling, and certain it would be received with wonderful feedback and praise! This was only several months back, and god, how much I have learned since then. “Nero’s Violin” was rejected and not all that graciously. It seemed too rambling, too expressionistic. The editor said “the reader should know up front why they are reading this piece”. Now, I am no editor and have no publication whose audience I must overly concern myself with, but I knew this editor had gotten it wrong. I knew that the viewpoint they were coming from was flawed. Because I was not writing an essay, per se. The piece was a work of art. It stands alone and inhabits the space of its own truth. It reads to the reader how it felt to write. “Nero’s Violin” was eventually published by Poetic Outlaws and is one of my finest, most successful pieces, by metrics personal and universal, to date.

What I wish to communicate is that I write from the gut, as if from the bow of a ship. It is the voyage that concerns me. It is only the voyage that I wish to impart to the reader. I guess it should not have taken me this long to say that all writing or art need not conform to this idea—however, the idea is worth the occasional defending and reminder now and again.

I believe, to me, that every piece of work should contain a certain amount of friction. The friction can be felt and seen in the paint strokes and also on the page. It is the only way I feel that I am speaking and the only way I have ever felt I am being spoken to. Yes—there are times for masterpieces, for carving and culling. But I like it much more when I am able to write freely, not knowing where I am going and not knowing how I will write myself into or out of it. If you are reading these last lines, whether you think I am foolish or not, the piece has fulfilled its own space. I cannot say what good a piece of writing like this does. It is a brick in the wall of many other texts. It is a feather in the wind. Nothing will come from it. Nothing in the world has been made any better or any of that. But what I mean from before, in terms of all that therapy talk, I feel very good about it. And that is the thing with vomiting, isn’t it? You feel so much better after you’ve gotten it all out.

JSV
2024

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