Art has always had an interesting place in my life. When I was younger, I was forced into it by my parents, thinking that art is something to be appended onto a resume. I withdrew from art for a long period of time, focusing on sciences and subconsciously deriding those who would appreciate and practice art.
From a strictly money-based perspective, art isn’t really too practical. Many people I know like to tout the statistic that only the top 10% of professional artists can live comfortably. I hear stories from my parents of impoverished, yet talented, Chinese artists, willing to sell some admittedly nice looking paintings for a pittance.
As I grew, I started to wonder why people would make themselves undergo such struggles for such superficial benefit. The second time I explored art, I did it on my own volition. Some art classes and orchestra rehearsals later, I think I have a bit of a better idea about art than I did in the days of yore.
Despite my newfound interest in art, I still find traversing museums more onerous than fascinating. Perhaps a few pieces would strike my fancy, and I could appreciate the effort and creativity that went into making said pieces. But, once I’ve seen a hundred or a thousand pieces of similar quality requiring similar skill, I begin to lose interest. I lose my appreciation for beauty once I’m surrounded by it, constantly, for hours on end.
When I visited the small exhibition in the storage room of the Johnson, this was no sprawling expanse of reputable artworks; it was a handpicked collection of relics, practical and realistic articles from central America. The tour guide pointed out things that were, on one hand, obvious, but on the other hand, easy to miss on the first glance. This was especially proven by the “jelly doughnut” teapot, which was actually an oil spill.
I can’t say that I truly appreciate ceramics anymore than I did before, and nor can I say that I was dazzled by the art collection I saw. As I struggled to mold the clay into something that looked more meaningful than an oblong grey lump, however, I did start to understand how much of an endeavor it was to create something practical and nice looking.
I think you bring up an interesting point. How often do we think we have passion for something, only to realize that since we pursue it to a certain degree, we had began to loose that passion.
I am a varsity swimmer for Cornell and I definitely see this all around me. Burn out is a real thing. Although most of us fell in love with sport at one point, it would be a lie to say that in the process of achieving the goals that we wanted so badly, it has strained our love for the sport.
I wonder if it is possible to continue to love your passion, while putting so much effort into it that you succeed? I guess there must be a way too. And that way is how Olympians and successful artists are made.
I was never talented enough to produced artistic works of wonder so I assumed I was wired for something more tangible, in a sense. It took me a while to step off my high horse and find something artistic that I truly enjoy. To be honest, such visits like one to the Johnson museum are a nice break from my highly computational life but I still haven’t found a balance between these two spheres.
Hi David, Your post added an interesting perspective to your clay modeling event. I do think that perhaps there is some differentiation to be made between art and design. When you say how difficult it is to create something “practical and nice looking,” that is terminology that belongs to design (creating something that is functional and aesthetically pleasing). What I think fine art does so well is undermine both that practicality and at times even those aesthetics in order to prove a larger concept; the function of art is to create culture and it does that in many different means, even when they may not be visually appealing but intellectually rigorous.