Conceptual artists are mystics rather than rationalists. They leap to conclusions that logic cannot reach. Rational judgments repeat rational judgments. Irrational judgments lead to new experience. Formal art is essentially rational. Irrational thoughts should be followed absolutely and logically. If the artist changes his mind midway through the execution of the piece he compromises the result and repeats past results. The artist's will is secondary to the process he initiates from idea to completion. His willfulness may only be ego. When words such as painting and sculpture are used, they connote a whole tradition and imply a consequent acceptance of this tradition, thus placing limitations on the artist who would be reluctant to make art that goes beyond the limitations. The concept and idea are different. The former implies a general direction while the latter is the component. Ideas implement the concept. Ideas can be works of art; they are in a chain of development that may eventually find some form. All ideas need not be made physical. Ideas do not necessarily proceed in logical order. They may set one off in unexpected directions, but an idea must necessarily be completed in the mind before the next one is formed. For each work of art that becomes physical there are many variations that do not. A work of art may be understood as a conductor from the artist's mind to the viewer's. But it may never reach the viewer, or it may never leave the artist's mind. The words of one artist to another may induce an idea chain, if they share the same concept. | Since no form is intrinsically superior to another, the artist may use any form, from an expression of words (written or spoken) to physical reality, equally. If words are used, and they proceed from ideas about art, then they are art and not literature; numbers are not mathematics. All ideas are art if they are concerned with art and fall within the conventions of art. One usually understands the art of the past by applying the convention of the present, thus misunderstanding the art of the past. The conventions of art are altered by works of art. Successful art changes our understanding of the conventions by altering our perceptions. Perception of ideas leads to new ideas. The concept of a work of art may involve the matter of the piece or the process in which it is made. Once the idea of the piece is established in the artist's mind and the final form is decided, the process is carried out blindly. There are many side effects that the artist cannot imagine. These may be used as ideas for new works. The process is mechanical and should not be tampered with. It should run its course. There are many elements involved in a work of art. The most important are the most obvious. If an artist uses the same form in a group of works, and changes the material, one would assume the artist's concept involved the material. Banal ideas cannot be rescued by beautiful execution. It is difficult to bungle a good idea. When an artist learns his craft too well he makes slick art. These sentences comment on art, but are not art. |
This week the Hawaii State Public Library is having their annual used book sale. I've found some great things, including several books on pottery. Yesterday I picked up a book on conceptual art entitled No Title: The Collection of Sol Lewitt. I found the book stimulating and was especially intrigued by its back cover which lists "Sentences on Conceptual Art." These were originally published in 0-9 (New York) 1969 and Art-Language (England) 1969. I always like reading something that stimulates my thinking in one way or another, and these sentences definitely do that. You might find them stimulating as well. I'm presenting them in two columns like they're presented in the book.
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I long so much to make beautiful things. But beautiful things require effort and disappointment and perseverance. --Vincent Van Gogh This isn't the best pot I've thrown, but it's the most important. Why? Well, let me tell you. I threw this pot after I'd been working with clay for six weeks. I wanted to throw a large pot like some of the other guys were throwing at HPG and that meant throwing a larger piece of clay. I remember kneading six pounds of Rods Bod on the wedging table, feeling its massiveness in my hands. All that clay felt huge and I had to change my technique to handle so much of it. I didn't stop and think it through but made small adjustments each time I pushed the clay into the table. I felt the changes that needed to be made. When the clay was thoroughly wedged, I sat down at the wheel, raised the clay up and BAM, slammed it down on the bat, the sound ricocheting off the walls. The guy sitting across from me, another newbie, jerked up his head. "Man, Jon, how much clay is that?" "Six pounds," I said, "Six pounds of Rods Bod." It sat there like a mountain daring me to tame it if I could. I'd never thrown more than 3 pounds of clay but I wanted to challenge myself, to try something I wasn't ready to do. I put my hands on the clay and started centering it, startled at how solid it felt, how immoveable. After about 5 minutes or so I had it centered and ready to open up. After opening the hole, I began pulling up the walls, the thick walls. Everything was going well until I squeezed the clay too hard about 2 inches above the base, thinning it out and torquing it. I tried to straighten it out but its movements became even more eccentric and soon it was swaying like a belly dancer. Cursing myself, I pushed the clay down and cut it off the bat. Sheepishly I shuffled to the wedging table keeping my head down, staring at the lumpen mass in my hands like it was some offensive thing. I kneaded the clay again, pushing it into a homogenous mass, squeezing out the air bubbles, thinking about what had just happened and how to keep it from happening again. I walked back to the wheel, sat down, raised up the clay and BAM, slammed it down on the bat. After about 5 minutes or so I had it centered and ready to open up. After opening the hole, I began pulling up the walls, the thick walls. Everything was going well until I squeezed the clay too hard about 2 inches above the base, thinning it out and torquing it. I tried to straighten it out but its movements became even more eccentric and soon it was swaying like a belly dancer. Cursing myself, I pushed the clay down and cut it off the bat. Sheepishly I shuffled to the wedging table keeping my head down, staring at the lumpen mass in my hands like it was some offensive thing. I kneaded the clay again, pushing it into a homogenous mass, squeezing out the air bubbles, thinking about what had just happened and how to keep it from happening again. I walked back to the wheel, sat down, and as quietly as possible put the clay on the bat. After about 5 minutes or so I had it centered and ready to open up. After opening the hole, I began pulling up the walls, the thick walls. Everything was going well until I squeezed the clay too hard about 2 inches above the base, thinning it out and torquing it. I tried to straighten it out but its movements became even more eccentric and soon it was swaying like a belly dancer. Cursing myself, I pushed the clay down and cut it off the bat. I looked around the room. All the other potters had their heads down, looking like they were concentrating on their pots. No one wanted to look at me. By my count I threw that same piece of clay 21 times over the course of 5 days. 21 times. Slowly it shrank; slowly I corrected my mistakes, learning all along the way, oscillating between frustration and self-loathing. Most nights I went to bed solemnly swearing never to touch clay again, certain that I'd never get this right, that I didn't have the talent for it, that it wasn't worth learning how to do this. And why was I making pots anyway? What's the point? But the next day I picked up the same piece of clay and went at it again. Over the course of 5 days I discovered how creative I was: I was creating new ways of messing up pots that no one had dreamt of. In fact, I grew so fond of my unique mistakes that I repeated them over and over again to make sure I'd gotten them right. But most of my mistakes were typical garden variety mess ups that we all make: I bellied out the bottom too quickly and collapsed the pot; I whacked the pot with my hand as I was reaching for something; my hands hit a dry spot which created too much friction and knocked the pot out of round; the clay became too wet and couldn't hold it's shape; I ripped off the top because I pulled the clay up too fast and with too much pressure. You get the idea. Learning a skill is a process. We know that. But the notion of process implies that mistakes will be made, that the apprentice will move from inadequacy to greater adequacy, that the only path to greater perfection is the path of imperfection, and that the path must be persevered in even though the process beats down our self esteem, disappoints our hopes, and mocks our abilities. I learned a lot about perseverance along the way because failure was my constant companion. But what other way could I take to learn this skill? The path of imperfection is the only path I know of, and it's often pretty rough going. But by the final day I'd grown quite a bit. I wasn't thinking about taming the clay; I was wooing it. When I finally finished the pot to my satisfaction, I remember looking at it wistfully knowing how much the process had meant to me. What I learned over those 5 days about clay and about myself laid the foundation for everything I've done since then. It loosened me up, made me less afraid to make "mistakes," to be less paranoid about what others might think of my work or how they might evaluate me as a potter. It made me more confident in my skills and my ability to make anything out of clay. Looking at the pot now, all 8 inches of it, brings a smile to my face. At the moment I thought it was such a great pot, and for me it was, but I couldn't have done anything better without going through that pot and dozens of others that weren't much better. That's why this is the most important pot I've ever thrown. |
AuthorI hope this blog will be encouraging to potters, especially beginning potters, and a source of helpful information and comment. Archives
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