Artist's Statement

I am feeling smug because two highly intelligent people have complimented me recently. One such compliment was about my artist's statement, so now you can suffer through it at your leisure.

Artist’s Statement

I have the dubious ‘benefit’ of being formally trained in art. This means that in all of my work there is cognizance of the elements and principles of design, whether that is my desire or not. When people find out that I teach art, it occasionally prompts the only art-related question they have retained: “So, does art imitate life or does life imitate art?” I have learned to deftly sidestep this gem, as it provokes feelings of inadequacy and even hostility, with some bruxism on occasion.
Despite constant upkeep of my self-esteem, I always feel like a loser, a mock-artist, a poseur, when I realize that I cannot answer the person. This then progresses to rage when I recover from the initial blow: I realize that this is an invalid question. Two choices, equally unappealing, all my work and the work of countless others boiled down to a pseudo-philosophical sound byte. At this point, my teeth involuntarily grit, my jaw locks. I force a smile and babble some artsy nonsense.
It is impossible to not feel the influence of the senses. I create from what my environs, my experiences, but I don’t consider it imitative. I cannot commit to one medium, one line of imagery, one thought process, or one inspiration. I take what I need from formal color theory, kitsch, memory, emotion, and whatever has a physical presence in my life at the time. Art making is hardly a divine experience for me; an exorcism is a better comparison. My training is in drawing and painting, but assemblage and installation are often the only means of “getting it out”. I use what is necessary to get where I need to be–if oil paint is the way, I sling a little on a canvas. If a pile of broken toys fits the bill, I have no qualms about it. Opportunistic, probably, but I didn’t choose to be an artist. Once I resigned myself and realized there was no escaping my fate, I consciously developed a fecund imagination and became a packrat.
Sometime later I write an artist’s statement, and blammo, I’m an artist. Oh, and truth isn’t often beauty, and beauty isn’t necessarily truth, so don’t even ask.