Article - What Makes an Artist

What Makes an Artist

By

B.D. Adams

2014©

            I’ve written a few articles for “The Hanging Image,” a webpage by a good friend ... http://hangingimage.com ... and, I hope to write some more for him. However, just so many articles ... just so many words ... can be written to entice you, the reader, to purchase art for wall decorating, be it paintings or photography. My articles have been written for the webpage, but not many folks seem to A) see the items I have written in the past, or B) have little interest in art or artists! A sad thought.

            Will I give up on my previous endeavors to encourage art? Not on your life! These articles will be my attempt to talk, invite interest in art and photography as art!

            However, I do feel a need to expand on the creators of art ... what makes an artist! Let’s touch on the actual, human side of art. What entices one to pick up a brush and palette with delightful colors to put paint to canvas, or to discover that old, dusty camera from that cluttered closet, to see if it still worked!

            I think that I can divulge the secret that visual artists are created by what they see ... mostly by the desire to be artists!

            I was so inspired, motivated by many artists. However, I was also very frustrated, intimated by these men and women, at times. To be good, one needs to overcome the fear of what to do next; continue to try or give up. I never gave up! 

            For this article, I feel the need to offer a small eulogy for one of my admirations. I was a painter when I first learned of Andrew Wyeth. His art was so thoughtful ... so moving ... so understated. The pieces with people were so “real,” as they depict the casual life of country folks. I was so lucky, when I resided in New York City, that I saw his Helga Paintings at MOMA. His still-lifes and his nature images showed his appreciation of what he saw. Unfortunately, Mr. Wyeth passed away in January 16, 2009 at the age of ninety-one. The world has enjoyed his talent and will continue to enjoy his work because we were blessed with his longevity!

            Was my artwork as good as his?  Well ... I always wanted it to be. However, dear reader, we always look to the pie-in-the-sky for our acceptance.

            I’ve wondered, from time to time, what would have happened with Andrew Wyeth, Pablo Picasso or even Ansel Adams, if they were discouraged from pursuing their art? What if all they heard were the nay-sayers about their art pursuits!

            “Andy!  Whatcha doin’? Makin’ a new drawing? Come on ... play ball with us,” a so-called friend might tease. 

            “What’re ya gonna do for money, Pablo? Ya really think the tourists will buy your stuff?”

            “Hey, Ansel ... why d’you need such a big camera? Anyone can take a snap-shot!”

            Alas, dear readers, this has been the turmoil that all artists endure!!  Look at Vincent Van Gogh, for goodness sake! The poor man was so tormented (and, not only by his mental problem) by the so-called critics! He sliced his right ear from his head to make his statement!  Granted, his method was a bit extreme, but I think you get the point.

           There are many folks ... young or old ... who have thought about trying, who wanted to try, who actually did try ... but, who had been discouraged by “well-meaning” friends and family. It is difficult for the “well-meaning” types, who cannot see beyond the end of their noses, to keep their noses out of the artists’ ... well, you know! To me, we are all artists!!

            It’s only the dedicated artists who shove all negative thoughts to a hidden spot, so they can pursue only what’s important. Their art!

            I am encouraging you to read about artists where you can! Read the morsels that are published in magazines, on websites or books. Artists come in all shapes and forms! The only thing that separates any of us is merely not trying to “see” what’s in front of us!

            As I have hinted in past articles, I too am an artist ... a photographer. When I die and they prepare my body for burial, stop-bath will be what they’ll find in my veins. Sorry ... I digress. My creative life has been full of the ups and downs, all the nay-sayers, that all artists have endured. My career began many, many years ago, when women were not encouraged to succeed in a man’s work. But, I pursued, made my mark!

            In my case, my mother was my biggest nay-sayer! We’d talk on the phone (she lived in Texas and I was in Ohio) and she’d always get around to her mother’s question ... her mother’s nag;  “Oh, honey ... when are you going to get a “real” job? Like as a key-punch operator!” That’s when I’d say good-by and hang up on her. (Yes ... this example will date me.)

            However, once I proved to her that I could make money and not starve and even fly down to Texas for Christmas, she lightened up.  I was even hired to photograph my brother’s wedding (and ... that’s another story)!  Every artist has their stories.

            Writing has become a new art-form for me.  I still create with my cameras, but this is new, and new is a good thing. My next article about photography as an art-form, will be submitted next month.

            Until the next article, take care!  Spring is on its way!!!!

Kellogg's Excerpt

This is a tidbit from the novel I’ve been working on for a while. Soon, I hope to really begin the search for an agent or publisher who will take a chance on this novice and serious writer.

This character, Chuck Kellogg, is an old retired fellow who lives on the Hilltop in Columbus, Ohio. He spends many nights treasure hunting all over the downtown with his metal detector to find coins and rings and whatever else. It is summer, so he can walk for as long as he wants!

Very late Thursday night, he finds a .45 caliber bullet in the parking lot’s grass island, at the downtown science & industry museum. He determines it was a thru-n-thru (not all smashed) and has dried blood on it, No body – just the bullet! He is able to get an amateur forensic kit from his friend’s hobby shop to see if the blood is animal or human. If it tests that it’s animal, he won’t take the bullet to his Detective friend. He should just take the bullet to the Police Department, but he’s stubborn, wants to do his test.

This is the day he gets the kit to test the bullet.

B.D. Adams-A Spider Sat Beside Her-Book Excerpt                       2014 ©

            It was morning, but after eleven o’clock ... UPS was late. Chuck headed back home with his new “forensic kit!” David got one that wasn’t costly, but swore it would be good.

As usual, Chuck walked to David’s shop. He was so glad the storm ended before he began this walk. He had no car. Didn’t need one – the city buses went everywhere he needed to go. He’d get his beer at the corner store and went to the Kroger’s once a month by bus.

He lived only two streets from David’s shop and had on his dark green, rain-poncho. It was supposed to dry up by early afternoon. The small box he got from the shop was protected underneath his poncho.

            His ratty, fenced backyard sort of bordered the cracked, paved alley. He made a mental note to mow the ratty grass in the yard. The chinked, uneven concrete walk, made in the WPA era (Works Progress Admin.), from the alley to his backdoor, was how he usually entered or exited his house, to or from the narrow mud-room/pantry in the kitchen. It was better to shake off the rain (or snow) and change to his dry house shoes in this small room.

He placed the box on a nearly empty shelf, and then he carefully took off the poncho, shook it while he stood on the stop step of the back stoop under the small roof, to drain the rainwater. Then, he closed the screened door and hung the poncho on the hook by that door. It was only drizzling now. Already warm ... even with the rain.

Chuck had built a small, wood bench, so he could easily sit to change his shoes. After he stood in his house shoes, he grabbed a near dishtowel to dry his face and hands. He retrieved the box to set it on the kitchen table.

            His home was a rental, red brick, two-story, row townhouse that was built in the 1930’s. There were five attached houses in his row. His unit was located second from the left, if you faced from the street.

Just a few single-family homes on this short stretch of a tree-lined street ... a quiet neighborhood.

            Chuck moved into this home in 1975, just after he was discharged from the Army ... after Vietnam. Ohio State was good for hiring veterans fresh back from Vietnam. After the riots of 1970, they wanted to play nice to the military folk.

Once settled, he was comfortable here. Old-man Traynor was a pretty good landlord ... his wife always gave him casserole dishes. When Traynor died, twenty-five years ago, the property was  sold to a rental management company, which raised the rent; thank goodness, not too badly. The new owners seemed to be glad of the money and the tenants didn’t gripe. Only one other unit had long term tenants; an old couple who had lived in the far end unit since they were married in the 60’s. Around his age. That’s why he stayed on the Hilltop ... it was comfortable.

            Chuck’s kitchen was well worn, as was the entire house. The cabinets were of solid oak, but needed fresh varnish or a coat of paint. The only thing he had done to “update” the kitchen was a new linoleum tile floor ... twenty years ago. The kitchen table, styled in the 1950s (all the furniture was), showed more of the wear-n-tear ... cracked, two-tone gray & white linoleum top with rust-spotted, aluminum legs and trim ... which included four chairs with split, plastic upholstery, same coloration as the table top. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to buy new, or just stay with what wasn’t totally broken. His only constant visitor was David, who came by for coffee or a beer, and the yearly bug exterminator and the meter-readers. These folks were usually polite.

             After he put the box on his kitchen table, he went into his living room to check his answering machine ... he heard the quiet message beeps. There was no dining room, the kitchen was large enough for that. There was just a partial hall with the door to the basement stairs between the kitchen and the living room. The other side was the stairs to the second floor, accessible from the living room.

The message was just a nuisance, toll-free call. That taken care of, he went back to the kitchen.

            He fetched the plastic bag with the bullet from his kitchen’s “forensic drawer.” His finger printing kit was in there, also. He had decided to not try to print the casing. If this was human blood, he’d let the better experienced forensic guys or gals at the police department have at it. He gathered a pair of plastic gloves (in case none were provided), so he could handle the bullet, along with a sterile scalpel and his stainless steel tweezers.

Then, Chuck sat at the table and opened the UPS box, removed all the packing. He opened the manufacture’s box and arranged the new materials on the table, took out the instruction sheet to scrutinize anything of importance ... anything new. Easy stuff, his mind determined.

            “Oh, dammit,” he muttered. Chuck had to go back to the drawer to fetch an 8”x8” sheet of sterile paper from an older kit he had. The instructions said to “extract shavings from the evidence.” He needed to catch the shavings onto the paper sheet. The paper was very white, very smooth and flexible, wouldn’t crease ... nothing would stick to it. He just needed to transfer the scrapings into the provided 2oz. bottle from the new kit, which contained a special liquid. Didn’t need much.

Once he was reseated, he took out the liquid bottle and read that the liquid was Hexa ... Hexa ... whatever. Chuck smiled a little to himself ... hell, he was lousy with words, good with measurements and calibrations, but not with words.

            Chuck pulled on the gloves and carefully took the bullet from the plastic bag. He gingerly handled the bullet and very carefully held it with the tweezers. He began to think about CSI-Miami ... he loved those TV shows! Then, he took the scalpel to gently run the blade over the bullet’s tarnish ... the fine scrapings fell onto the paper sheet. He only scraped a bit, almost held his breath. He immediately returned the bullet to the baggie.

After he put the first tools aside, he snipped off the tip of the bottle’s cap, unscrewed it and half-funneled the paper. The dry scrapings slid into the bottle. He capped the bottle and shook it slightly and the scrapings began to slowly dissolve! He held the bottle at eye-level to watch.

            He waited only a moment, and then retrieved the last item from the kit that did the actual testing. It was a plastic applicator that looked like those advertised on television to establish pregnancy. If this worked, he’d have David order a couple more of these kits.

            Chuck held the applicator and gently squeezed two drops onto the applicator, where one blue line (already there) could be accompanied by another, if this was human blood.

            It didn’t take long ... another blue line became definite!! Chuck was so excited! This was human blood! Now, he had to go see the Detective!!

 That's all for now. I might do another excerpt, if the moon and planets are aligned.