Topanga Dreamcatcher by Melanie Biehle
I’m going to start this post by copying the caption from an Instagram shot that I shared the day after I saw La La Land.
Today I’m starting with a blank page, but not because of the reason you might think. You see, one of the difficult/crazy/amazing things that happens when an over-analytical writer with two psychology degrees decides to wholeheartedly accept and respond to the maddening call to paint is that it’s never just paint on canvas. Or, at least it tries not to be.
After watching La La Land yesterday I started thinking about the times that I’m usually emotionally moved by art or entertainment or reading or life. What triggers that? I found a pattern in my own responses and then I started wondering why my artwork is kind of the opposite of that and then…well now, paper and words. I have to explore more. That’s what I do. And sometimes it drives me nuts. And other times I love it. Get to know me!
I ended up writing in my journal for almost an hour that morning. Before I tell you about some of the things that I discovered about myself and my own work, I want to share the song from the film that I can’t stop listening to. The one that brought streaming tears down my face when I first heard it in the theater. Listen to Audition (The Fools Who Dream) then meet me back over here, okay?
Sigh.
Later I realized that the song moved me so much because I was relating to it on an emotional level. It was kind of a weird moment for me because while I know I’m a sensitive, emotional soul, much of the thinking that I do about my profession is analytical. And that’s when the weirdness pops up. It’s almost like that song made me realize that, “OH! I’M ONE OF THEM!” It’s like I’ve been spending so much time analyzing my work and creative direction for the last several years that I hadn’t yet stopped to realize all of the emotion and energy and passion behind it.
Whew, indeed! Then, naturally, as all good psychology majors do, I went back to analyzing my artwork in my journal exercise.
The only time I ever cried in an art museum was when I saw an amazing photography exhibition of Phillip Toledano’s work when we visited Hamburg in 2015. When I Was Six, the series that he did based on the sudden death of his sister, and Days With My Father, which dealt with the loss of his mother and the impact that it had on his father who had dementia were both included in the exhibition and both brought me to tears. When I viewed the work, especially When I Was Six, my mind went to my own experience of losing a sibling. So when I looked at Phillip’s photographs, my vision was filtered through the lens of my own tragedy. That’s how we interpret everything in life, which is what often leads to misunderstandings, “failed” relationships, love, joy, hate, etc.
Virtually every experience and thought that we have is filtered through our previous personal experiences. Whether we know it or not, we respond to visual art in the same way. Everyone sees and feels something different.
When I visit an art museum, I’m organically most visually attracted to the bright colorful abstracts that feel similar to my own style of painting. And while I often will physically gasp when I see one that especially love – like unconditionally/without logic/am aesthetically drawn to –, there are no tears. It doesn’t make me cry or obsess over it for days after I’ve seen it. It doesn’t provoke intense, lingering emotional reactions. I don’t feel the gamut of feelings. Just love. Appreciation for the physical beauty, complexity, style, mood and, ESPECIALLY, the color palette of the piece. I wish that I would have painted it, or I might make notes if there are any aspects of it that I might be able to bring into my own work (like the color palette).
But why isn’t my artwork like my writing?
That’s what I kept coming back to. I’ve covered so many personal, difficult, and emotional stories through my words. Why doesn’t that translate into the art that seems to be pouring out of me?
Shakti Fine Art Print by Melanie Biehle
This is the part of my journal entry where I wrote:
Note: I love when seemingly unrelated ideas show up when I’m journaling.
Note: See? I’m analyzing my analysis. Welcome to my world.
Maybe my art is where my brain goes to rest. It’s definitely where I find flow. Time flies when I’m putting colors side by side and turning a series of marks into a pattern. Maybe my colorful abstract paintings are where I express an even more raw, unfiltered part of myself. Maybe my emotions and experiences are being translated into colors and patterns in an intuitive way that I don’t even realize.
Maybe my paintings are magic.
Yeah. I like that. My paintings are magic.
I know one thing. I don’t want to screw up the magic by thinking about it too much. I don’t want to think that I need to make paintings that “mean something.” Because they already mean something – they’re me. They’re made from me – from every experience, every color I’ve loved, every emotion I’ve felt. You may not be able to pick them out in an abstract cityscape or point to them in the varying shades of pink, but it’s all in there. And I have to be okay with that. Because when I’m painting, I am creating in flow. I’m making what I’m moved to make, not constructing some esoteric tower of meaning.
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