Explorative
I think it is a strange, yet metaphorically telling, phenomena that we believe as a culture in things like exploratory surgery. We don't know what's wrong with you, but we are going to cut you open, look around, hope that we find something, and attempt to fix you. All of this could potentially make you worse, will undoubtedly be painful, and promises no results.
This is where I am in my artistic process. I have no choice at this point, either from a pragmatic or an artistic perspective, but to press on and keep trying to produce. This body of work is painful for me, has moments that are both caustic and liberating, and in the end has no defined affect. This may be a great and necessary catharsis that will ultimately lead to the revelation that I have been waiting for my whole life, and it may just leave me with fresh and large scars and a body of work that is simultaneously eerie and perky. (For the record, I do not desire to be either.)
But the other remarkable thing about this process is that a support system sometimes erects itself beneath your flailing limbs before you manage to tip over and fall. In the past several days alone I have been pointedly told that I am a worthwhile human being, given links to lectures on shifting perspective, shown presentations about painful yet beneficial regeneration, and been reminded that I am a photographer and that is my chosen form of expression.
The only trouble is that I am both surgeon and patient. Both curious and expectant, in control and vulnerable. But at least I can see all the encouraging glances from the waiting room - the crossed arms, the stoic nods, the nail biting, the steaming coffee - all from a group of people who care about me more than they care about what I am doing. My health and well being are paramount above my product, and the support is there whether I soar or stumble. It doesn't actually make the process easier, but it does make surviving it more plausible.
This is where I am in my artistic process. I have no choice at this point, either from a pragmatic or an artistic perspective, but to press on and keep trying to produce. This body of work is painful for me, has moments that are both caustic and liberating, and in the end has no defined affect. This may be a great and necessary catharsis that will ultimately lead to the revelation that I have been waiting for my whole life, and it may just leave me with fresh and large scars and a body of work that is simultaneously eerie and perky. (For the record, I do not desire to be either.)
But the other remarkable thing about this process is that a support system sometimes erects itself beneath your flailing limbs before you manage to tip over and fall. In the past several days alone I have been pointedly told that I am a worthwhile human being, given links to lectures on shifting perspective, shown presentations about painful yet beneficial regeneration, and been reminded that I am a photographer and that is my chosen form of expression.
The only trouble is that I am both surgeon and patient. Both curious and expectant, in control and vulnerable. But at least I can see all the encouraging glances from the waiting room - the crossed arms, the stoic nods, the nail biting, the steaming coffee - all from a group of people who care about me more than they care about what I am doing. My health and well being are paramount above my product, and the support is there whether I soar or stumble. It doesn't actually make the process easier, but it does make surviving it more plausible.
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