The azure sky is accompanied by mountains of snowy white clouds as we sit outside a local cafe, drinking espresso and contemplating the arts. I will call my friend, Paulette. She is an artist who prefers to be surrounded by others of her kind. Her oil on canvas can see upwards of ten thousand dollars while she gives her water colors away to anyone who asks for one. She is generous, kind, and opinionated.
On most occasions, we fish and talk about life, philosophy, and politics. She is a raving conservative, but tells no one except her closest friends. Everyone else thinks she is a democrat. She is sure that if her political views become public her following will soon scorn her.
I am not so sure, but indulge her quirkiness. I love this woman. On many occasions, she has been my muse. She will sit next to me and chat about the state of the universe as she pulls a wide-mouthed bass out of the lake. She'll bring that fish in like a pro, scoop it up into a net, unhook it, and throw it back before you have time to ponder the joy on her face and the glow in her eyes.
She is an enigma. My Paulette.
Our conversation over coffee and Coke went something like this:
"You do not blog art." Tipping a broad hat to protect her skin from the sun's rays, Paulette's eyes hold mine in studied concentration. "Others blog about the artist. The artist never blogs of his or her art."
"Why not?"
"It is not the artist's job to do such things."
I thought about it, thinking perhaps she has difficulty spelling. "So you don't have a blog. Then, how do you market?"
"Others market me. Others blog about me. I paint."
"So you don't even have an online shop?"
Two perfectly plucked eyebrows draw into a vee. "No. How ridiculous. Others sell my work. I don't sell my work. Unless you are at my house having tea. Then I might give you my art."
I laugh. I have a small painting--a gift from her--as I had gifted her my two books. "Must be nice to sell so well," I quip. She sips her soda--lady-like and serene. Paulette doesn't fool me though she tries. She loves Diet Coke and (psst) french fries from McDonalds. "Have you any suggestions on how I should market my work?" I ask.
"Enough with the social media. It is for amateurs." She draws out the eurs as she draws in close, forehead to forehead. The ribbon from her hat is about to make contact with her drink.
I play along. "Then what do you suggest I do?"
She sits back and grins. "Let others find you. You are good. Your words are like paint brushes on canvas. Emotive, crisp, yet, dramatic enough to get my attention. If you hang around long enough you will find your following."
"Perhaps." My cafe au lait is still warm as I drink from my cup. "You really think blogging is for amateurs?"
"I suppose I should be kinder." She nods at me. "If you have a cause, or something worth saying that others need to hear then blogging is good. If you blog just to blog about yourself and what you want then blogging to unburden yourself or sell your work is a waste of time. My time and your time."
"Do you think blogging on Thursdays about Crohn's is wrong?" I wait for her answer. It is important to me.
"Does it help others?"
I nod. Picturing in my mind the e-mails I get. "What about blogging for other people? I love to blog about books I find fascinating."
"Is that not a good thing for others? Blog what you will that is helpful, blogging just to bring attention to yourself and your art is not a good thing."
Paulette's eyes have grown stormy and that bothers me so I change the subject. "What is art?" I ask.
Always up for a philosophical battle, she slurps the last of her drink. "Art is whatever comes from inside. But, an artist is not a doll maker, or one of those, what you call, graphic persons that use the same face over and over again." She taps her fingers on the table. "An artist does not hang her work in the Internet, does not blog hop or whatever you call it." She frowns. "This blog hopping is silly."
"Well," I grin at her. "I think it's fun."
"You would." She laughs. "There are many types of artists. Those that use the computer programs are craft-persons. They are not artists. People who design dolls, costumes, and funky crafty crafts are craft-persons. Art comes from the mind."
"Got you!" I point my finger. "It is from the mind those dolls come from, it is from the mind the colors are first joined together in creating costumes." I tap my fingers. "It is from the mind that books are written, stories are told, and paintings are painted. No?'
"I suppose. Still. It is ignoble of you to put yourself out there, to tweet silly phrases, and post forgettable posts."
"You," I say pointedly. "Are a snob."
She agrees. "Perhaps I am."
Our drinks finished, we rise from the table, pay the cafe owner and walk off down the street. I lean against her, my teacher, my friend. I wonder about our differences, our own prejudices, and outlook on life. Paulette stops to let a mother and child cross the street before us. I wonder if she might throw herself in front of a car to stop it from getting too close to the stroller. She never had children and takes on her proteges as if they are her own. While I do not paint, I write, and it is her opinion that writers know more of art than most painters, certainly most crafters.
I think she flatters me, but she always makes me think. Granted the so-called craft person has more material at his or her hands. A quick copy and paste and a pixie is born, a borrowed background is utilized from a shared site, but truthfully? I know little of these things as they are not my venue. To me, art is about color, resonance, emotion, and the simple telling of truth. The artist's truth. Only when it is not borrowed can it be real, she says. That includes writing, painting, and crafting.
These thoughts are too much for someone recovering from the flu.
Yet, I wonder.
What say you?
(((hugs)))
Louann
On most occasions, we fish and talk about life, philosophy, and politics. She is a raving conservative, but tells no one except her closest friends. Everyone else thinks she is a democrat. She is sure that if her political views become public her following will soon scorn her.
I am not so sure, but indulge her quirkiness. I love this woman. On many occasions, she has been my muse. She will sit next to me and chat about the state of the universe as she pulls a wide-mouthed bass out of the lake. She'll bring that fish in like a pro, scoop it up into a net, unhook it, and throw it back before you have time to ponder the joy on her face and the glow in her eyes.
She is an enigma. My Paulette.
Our conversation over coffee and Coke went something like this:
"You do not blog art." Tipping a broad hat to protect her skin from the sun's rays, Paulette's eyes hold mine in studied concentration. "Others blog about the artist. The artist never blogs of his or her art."
"Why not?"
"It is not the artist's job to do such things."
I thought about it, thinking perhaps she has difficulty spelling. "So you don't have a blog. Then, how do you market?"
"Others market me. Others blog about me. I paint."
"So you don't even have an online shop?"
Two perfectly plucked eyebrows draw into a vee. "No. How ridiculous. Others sell my work. I don't sell my work. Unless you are at my house having tea. Then I might give you my art."
I laugh. I have a small painting--a gift from her--as I had gifted her my two books. "Must be nice to sell so well," I quip. She sips her soda--lady-like and serene. Paulette doesn't fool me though she tries. She loves Diet Coke and (psst) french fries from McDonalds. "Have you any suggestions on how I should market my work?" I ask.
"Enough with the social media. It is for amateurs." She draws out the eurs as she draws in close, forehead to forehead. The ribbon from her hat is about to make contact with her drink.
I play along. "Then what do you suggest I do?"
She sits back and grins. "Let others find you. You are good. Your words are like paint brushes on canvas. Emotive, crisp, yet, dramatic enough to get my attention. If you hang around long enough you will find your following."
"Perhaps." My cafe au lait is still warm as I drink from my cup. "You really think blogging is for amateurs?"
"I suppose I should be kinder." She nods at me. "If you have a cause, or something worth saying that others need to hear then blogging is good. If you blog just to blog about yourself and what you want then blogging to unburden yourself or sell your work is a waste of time. My time and your time."
"Do you think blogging on Thursdays about Crohn's is wrong?" I wait for her answer. It is important to me.
"Does it help others?"
I nod. Picturing in my mind the e-mails I get. "What about blogging for other people? I love to blog about books I find fascinating."
"Is that not a good thing for others? Blog what you will that is helpful, blogging just to bring attention to yourself and your art is not a good thing."
Paulette's eyes have grown stormy and that bothers me so I change the subject. "What is art?" I ask.
Always up for a philosophical battle, she slurps the last of her drink. "Art is whatever comes from inside. But, an artist is not a doll maker, or one of those, what you call, graphic persons that use the same face over and over again." She taps her fingers on the table. "An artist does not hang her work in the Internet, does not blog hop or whatever you call it." She frowns. "This blog hopping is silly."
"Well," I grin at her. "I think it's fun."
"You would." She laughs. "There are many types of artists. Those that use the computer programs are craft-persons. They are not artists. People who design dolls, costumes, and funky crafty crafts are craft-persons. Art comes from the mind."
"Got you!" I point my finger. "It is from the mind those dolls come from, it is from the mind the colors are first joined together in creating costumes." I tap my fingers. "It is from the mind that books are written, stories are told, and paintings are painted. No?'
"I suppose. Still. It is ignoble of you to put yourself out there, to tweet silly phrases, and post forgettable posts."
"You," I say pointedly. "Are a snob."
She agrees. "Perhaps I am."
Our drinks finished, we rise from the table, pay the cafe owner and walk off down the street. I lean against her, my teacher, my friend. I wonder about our differences, our own prejudices, and outlook on life. Paulette stops to let a mother and child cross the street before us. I wonder if she might throw herself in front of a car to stop it from getting too close to the stroller. She never had children and takes on her proteges as if they are her own. While I do not paint, I write, and it is her opinion that writers know more of art than most painters, certainly most crafters.
I think she flatters me, but she always makes me think. Granted the so-called craft person has more material at his or her hands. A quick copy and paste and a pixie is born, a borrowed background is utilized from a shared site, but truthfully? I know little of these things as they are not my venue. To me, art is about color, resonance, emotion, and the simple telling of truth. The artist's truth. Only when it is not borrowed can it be real, she says. That includes writing, painting, and crafting.
These thoughts are too much for someone recovering from the flu.
Yet, I wonder.
What say you?
(((hugs)))
Louann
RSS Feed
