My Visceral Voice

Thought begets clarity or, at the least, holds the potential. Philosophers are lauded as masters of thinking because they delve deeply into deciphering the meaning of life and other profound puzzlements. After great consternation, Descartes, for example, determined, “Cogito ergo sum,” that he actually did exist because he had thoughts. And artist Auguste Rodin sculpted what has become one of the most recognized statues that symbolizes philosophy, “The Thinker.”

Credit for more modern references on the value of thought go to the Moody Blues for their song, “The Best Way To Travel.” The lyrics indicating that thinking is the best way, and most economical I might add. And let’s not forget that popular, optimistic story about hard work by Watty Piper, The Little Engine That Could that made famous the mantra, “I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.” Of course there’s also the nourishing stuff for consideration, food for thought, low-cal fodder for the gray cells. Even I have been touted by some as being a particularly thoughtful person. But, because of the duality of things, that attribute has its less-remarkable side. Sometimes I think I think too much about things I have no control over or that aren’t worth my time.

When it comes to my art and creative expression however, my visual voice comes from my heart and gut, not my head or my thoughts. It’s how I’ve always approached my art yet, as I tend to do, I’ve sometimes questioned if I was a legit artist because of my lack of thoughtful approach.

As with all endeavors, there are usually diverse camps of opinion on method – how a subject should be embarked upon and what makes it true and authentic. Some artists give great thought to their body of work prior to the doing. Hours and days are spent contemplating the meaning or reason for what is about to be expressed visually. Notes are taken and pondering is profound. Because of the intensity of thought before the work, the work becomes analogous to a visual thesis, seemingly imbued with a greater sense of meaning and import.

Approach, however, depends on why an artist is creating the art. I undertake my work on a substantially more visceral level, an instinctual response to something that triggers my need to further connect to it or visually express my feeling or connection to the stimuli. At times I’ve felt conflicted that I’m not one to give a great amount of cognitive energy, or any, for that matter, to the path I take to my art since the ponderers would have me believe it lessens the value of what I do artistically. My approach, however, seems to be in keeping with my Myers-Briggs Personality Type Profile. I’m an ESFJ.

I learned of Myers-Briggs years ago when working in the corporate world. It’s uncanny how answering the questions as accurately as possible results in a spot-on assessment of one’s traits. Skipping a lengthy discourse on Myers-Briggs, I’ll just say that the “F” in my profile trait is the initial for “Feelers” as opposed to the opposite trait, “T” for “Thinkers”.

Most people possess various levels of all eight Myers-Briggs traits. The more predominant  trait of each of the four pairs of opposing attributes then makes up one of the 16 distinctive personality types, mine being ESFJ. Thinkers tend to make decisions using logical analysis, while Feelers tend to be sensitive and make decisions on their own personal values. Or, in my interpretation, Feelers make decisions based on their intuition and their, well, feelings!

As a Feeler, I believe there are no coincidences, which accounts for why, one day early last year in Books-A-Million, I was drawn to take a gander at the magazine racks and the cover of a Western Art & Architecture magazine caught my attention. It was the February/March 2015 issue. Although familiar with Cowboys & Indians magazine, having a subscription to it for over a decade, this publication was unfamiliar. My love affair with the West quickly had me thumbing through it. Flashes of images from Pages 82 – 86 gave me abrupt pause. It was specifically the image on the bottom of Page 83, Gino Hollander’s sketch book that arrested my skimming. This artist rough sketched in a style much as I did. Another image showed he painted horses, too. I needed to know more and paid the eight dollars to bring Gino home so I could get to know him better

Cozying up with the large, glossy magazine, I read about this 90 year old artist originally from New Jersey. Right from the first paragraph of the article written by Marla Cimini, I knew I had found a kindred spirit. “According to American artist Gino Hollander, the act of thinking is completely overrated when it comes to creativity. ‘Painting is not a thinking affair. It’s rather a sense of doing. I simply work instinctively and intuitively.’”

Ahhhhhhhh. His words were like having my own thoughts reflected back. I immediately felt comfortable in his company and voraciously read the rest of the article about this fascinating man. Gino’s works are raw and hold the passion of his doing – his visceral response to a feeling. The article indicated that he was known as an “undisciplined” painter who worked in acrylics and that he created his artwork for himself but with the hope that others would like it as well. I totally related.

Perpetuating the no-coincidence phenomenon, Steve and I had already made plans that we’d vacation in Santa Fe later that year for it’s awesome green chilies, and to imbibe the Southwest scenery and art galleries along Canyon Road. At the end of the article I discovered that, although Gino currently lived in California, his daughter, Siri Hollander, a well-known sculptor, was based in Santa Fe and owned the Hollander Gallery which featured her contemporary horse sculptures and an on-going, one-man show of her father’s works. Guess what gallery got put on my list of must-sees?

I felt privileged and quietly ecstatic that I got to see Gino’s work in person in Siri’s quaint, stuccoed gallery just off Canyon Road. We visited it on August 26, 2015.

The curator took the time to tell us much about Gino and show us numerous un-stretched canvases that weren’t yet on display. He noted that the artist had been in WW II and didn’t talk about it, but that his work was an outlet for the passion he felt for life and emotions from long ago. The curator also said, as did the article, that Gino was still creating art. In researching more about Hollander, I discovered he, too, was a self-taught artist who one day, later in life, just picked up a paint brush. No wonder the allure I instinctively felt for this man and his work!

Recently, while researching more information about Gino, I was saddened to learn that he had died at age 91, on August 27, 2015, the day immediately after we had visited the Hollander Gallery. I felt like I had missed out and thought how curious the timing was. My only regret, I’d not gotten to meet the man in person, this kindred spirit of guttural response creativity.

Needing to employ thinking as to why I don’t think much about my art before I engage in it, I’ve concluded it’s because it’s like a second voice for me, a voice for things I can’t describe with words that I feel connected to, that define me and make me  who I am. Thought isn’t necessary. My art is a visual rendition of myself – an inside look through abstract means. How could I possibly adequately describe my love of texture with words, all the feelings I experience when I see and touch texture? The mysterious grace and wildness of a horse? My congenital love of the West and Plains Indians and earthy tones and wabi sabi-ness? Is there really a verbal language capable of doing any of it justice? My passion doesn’t come from my head or my words, it resides in my heart. My art and creative pursuits are the language I use to describe and validate my relationship with and feelings for these things that come alive on canvas or paper through my hands. I don’t require pondering my feelings. All it takes to rouse the start of a piece is a pattern, color combination, a piece of pottery or an alluring pose of a horse to spawn excitement and a discourse with me employing my paints or papers to communicate what’s inside of me.

Recently having completed a 48 Days of Creative Devotion, where participants worked a minimum amount of time every day with the goal to finish a piece then publish the work on line to share with the group each day, I developed a new abstract technique that I’m uber pleased with. I paint using only palette knives, acrylic on canvas, and adhere papers that I’ve stamped that have funky patterns as accents. The papers tie each work together and make it complete. The work is totally instinctual and abstract with many layers of paint, yet each of these pieces articulate loudly and wildly of my love for many things in an abstract way.

“Primal Dawn II” © Carol A. Watson

 Other people have been wowed by them as well.  Before this group I’d not painted this way. The style just evolved as I did my daily creative devotion.

One of the participants of the group, Sue O’Kieffe, voiced a particularly moving comment in response to one of the abstracts I posted.  Inspiration for the piece came from a photo of a Native American shield I have saved on one of my Pinterest boards. It’s been determined to be from 1800-1825, a piece in the collection from The Met. Sue said of, Native Voice, my abstract work,  “I don’t have the language to describe the beauty I see in this. It hit me first in my heart and now I feel tears.”

“Native Voice” © Carol A. Watson

How uncanny that my inability to express in words what moves me, which I somehow can visually, affects others who then don’t have the language to describe what it is that they love about what I’ve just “said” with my art. I am humbled and elated all at once. 

It’s reactions like that which squelch any misgivings I have about not being an artist who sits like Rodin’s “The Thinker” and ponders profusely about what I am about to create.

“Ancient Wanderings II” © Carol A. Watson

I’ve been asked many times to show or demonstrate my art techniques,and particularly of late, my new abstract technique. My reluctance with demonstrating is that it is such a personal process. It’s a private session with myself that is always instinctive and often chaotic in it’s rhythm and approach. It would be like having the proverbial elephant in the room with me, watching as I work. I don’t believe the dynamics of the communion between me and my impulse would be the same and therefore would result in something less than a meaningful conversation. The intimacy of the exchange would be compromised, as would the work.

“Sacred Sojourn II” © Carol A. Watson

Because my work is instinctive and intuitive, it has value and meaning. First, it speaks about me and what moves me. I have also come to realize that because my work is stylized and abstract, it resonates with each viewer differently. It invites them to discover a connection from their own individual experience and elicits a visceral response giving them a sense of meaning and belonging to the piece, their own interpretation.

It pleases me to know that my visceral voice is heard and appreciated by others. That is what I think and what I feel.

Posted by carol@mylifewithcreativity.com & filed under Musings. This post has 2 comments.