My soul: Let me show you it
I read an essay online the other day, “Is an artist’s studio a window into their soul?” by Bob Duggan on BigThink, and it’s been percolating
in my brain ever since. Unfortunately, probably not in the way the author
intended. The piece compares the studios of NC Wyeth and Andrew Wyeth, which were
preserved as museums after their deaths.
Duggan says some fairly interesting things about what you can infer
about an artist’s life and practice from looking at the things he surrounded
himself with.
The author also mentions visiting the preserved studios of Winslow
Homer, Jackson Pollock, and Francis Bacon. (I’ve been to Francis Bacon’s studio
too – it’s a big ol’ mess, apparently because he wouldn't allow people to clean up his stuff.) Notice anything about those artists? Yep, famous
white men.
I work in my dining room. If my dining room reveals anything
about my soul, it’s probably about the constant tension of wanting to keep
working on things in progress and having to clean them up. I have another
friend who makes gorgeous, large, paint-on-metal pieces in her living room. Her
“studio”, if anyone ever visited, would probably reveal none of that, because,
as a nice middle-aged woman, she, like me, would tidy up for guests.
We would both love to have nice, airy studios to create work
in ideal conditions that we could tweak to our preferences. But we live in an
expensive city, so we make do. So do many, many others in vastly more difficult
conditions.
Martin Ramirez made
his art in an insane asylum, while very successful Japanese artist Yayoi Kusama
lives in one. A number of artists, including Frank Jones, did
much of their art in prison. Should we draw conclusions about their souls based
on that?
I might suggest another title for Duggan’s piece: “Is an artist’s studio a window into his
privilege?”
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