The Artist Defined

The Artist defined, it makes for a great existential question -are you an artist? I can't really say yes, at least I can't put it down on my tax forms because I never made any money at. At one time it was easier to answer that question because the primary consumers of art were also the financial patrons. If the Pope hired you to paint his ceiling then you were an artist. Before the industrial revolution paint and canvas were just too expensive for most artists to paint on speculation or for self indulgence. Rembrandt was well recognized as a commercial success in his life time but I remember reading a translation of one of his letters saying how he had to carefully budget his money in between commissions to pay for his other art projects. Up to the 20th century even the rich didn't have all that much except through the accumulation of stuff over generations.  

I do miss the days when I had a portfolio and three or four sketch books of figure drawings. It's a powerful ego boost when a young woman looks through your collective works and says "that's pretty, would you draw me too". Art has never been more available to the masses since the days of cave paintings where the materials and media were right there for everybody. Instead of having to mix your own pigments into linseed oil by hand, all you need is a credit card and to go to a website like www.cheapjoes.com . As a bit trivia I was told the sky in the Sistine Chapel was lapis blue. The pigment came all the way from Afghanistan and was more expensive than gold leaf.

Another bit of trivia was good paintings were done on the more expensive canvas, cheaper painting and knock-offs were done on wood panels. If you ever notice most surviving painting in museums are on wood panels.


As artists broke away from being pets of rich patrons they took on other roles such as social critics, bohemian thinkers, cult figures and starving martyrs rendering truth for the ages. As art became more impressionistic and abstract it became like derivative bonds -it had some association with the real world but not everyone who was buying the product understood that connection. Art became a product instead of a creation. You might not understand the art but if the artist died that created rarity -and rarity was usually a safe investment. Therefor dead artists are sound investments, a good example is Keith Haring. His work is simple with a childlike exuberance and has sky-rocketed in value since his death in the 1990's.

The egos of Popes, Kings, Emperors and Nouveau Riche have been supplanted by the market place. It makes an interesting historical footnote but very few of us will be caught up in the professional art world. Some of the more talented (or maybe just successful) artists I know like James Hilderbrand or John Gwyn have a second source of income. Their paintings are in demand and sell for thousands of dollars each and yet it's not enough to give up their day job.  

Art is part of my personal campaign to draw people away form the most passive forms of entertainment. Not that I'm somebody who advocates killing their TV but it's worth asking how many hours a week the average person wastes in front of it. One reason why people produce so much less folk art is because of mass media.    One person had documented how the art of hand made rugs disappeared from the Middle East as TV became available to even the most remote villages.

TV isn't all bad. Think of how many popular cultural references we can share through TV. And for me, when I'm in pain and can not sleep nothing puts me into a narcoleptic stupor like an info-mercial or the syndicated re-runs of some old sit-com dreck. It's better than any prescription medication.

There seems to be a direct correlation between loneliness and the number of hours in front of a TV. It seems to be the same for obesity and depression. Art is just one way to break people free and get them to interact with one another. Our time on Earth is short and any excuse to share that time together is a good thing.

In the day of our lives, in the brilliant light of an afternoon, we can convince ourselves we are Ozymandias, and blissfully ignore the fact, the stone that bares our name will crumble, crumble away to beach sand, and be washed away on an out going tide.