Why Abstract Work?

“Abstraction allows man to see with his mind what he cannot physically see with his eyes...Abstract art enables the artist to perceive beyond the tangible, to extract the infinite out of the finite. It is emancipation of the mind. It is an explosion into unknown areas.”

— Arshile Gorky

It’s a good question. I’ve thought about it a lot. Let me try to answer this with some basic reasons; there are more, deeper reasons than these, but this is the superficial answer to the question “why abstracts.'“

WHERE MY INTERESTS ARE (CURRENTLY)
I’m most interested in abstract work, or specifically abstract impressionism (and expressionism), for several reasons. I’ll try to articulate the main reasons why I’ve chosen this style. I don’t have any interest in realism or straight representational work. This is what most people think about when they think about painting. I like a lot of it, but I’m not interested in painting in those styles. I’m sure a large part of it is because of my years in photography. I want to explore the polar opposite of what photography does. I find myself kind of bored (visually) with photography these days. It doesn’t feel emotional enough or connected with expression—maybe a bit mechanical to me. It lacks a lot for me visually. On top of all of that, everyone does it, which is not necessarily a bad thing. However, not everyone can make expressive, interesting paintings. That’s what I’m working toward.

“In our culture anyway, especially in modern times, the heroic seems too big for us, or we too small for it. Tell a young man that he is entitled to be a hero and he will blush. We disguise our struggle by piling up figures in a bank book to reflect privately our sense of heroic worth. Or by having only a little better home in the neighborhood, a bigger car, brighter children. But underneath throbs the ache of cosmic specialness, no matter how we mask it in concerns of smaller scope.”

— Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

Making abstract paintings gives me a lot of freedom. I work from intuition (mostly), and it allows me to connect to something beyond the physical. When I paint, I recognize the psychology behind it all as well. The lack of representation is refreshing (at least representation in the photo-realistic sense). I absolutely love it. It brings me joy. It gives me meaning, and it feels significant to me. I can’t express this enough. I’m not painting to earn money, win awards, or even garner the viewers approval. I think it’s great if the viewer finds my paintings interesting, but that’s not my goal. I want to express ideas that I can’t express in other ways. Ideas about the human condition go beyond words or photographs. That’s a tall order, for sure, but I want to take that challenge on.

The texture of the paint, the vibrant color, and just the feeling of the work excites me. The paintings are rich and tactile. That’s intriguing to me. They are “aiive” in ways other mediums can’t produce—maybe sculptures, but nothing else for me. I find myself craving to paint every day. I want to get in there and throw paint and media down on a piece of paper, make marks, scratch, and intuitively feel my way through each piece. Just writing about it makes me want to go do it right now. It’s like when someone’s talking about food, it can make you hungry. Thinking about painting makes me want to paint.

“The hope and belief is that the things that man creates in society are of lasting worth and meaning, that they outlive or outshine death and decay, that man and his products count.”

— Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

Abstract paintings are (mostly) non-representational and use shapes, colors, and forms to allow viewers to interpret and connect with the artwork in a personal and subjective way. Abstract art allows artists to communicate emotions, ideas, and experiences. Abstract art's purpose is to encourage involvement and imagination, not to tell a story—at least not directly. I like to imply ideas with the paintings. Others say that abstract art is "art for art's sake" and creates an object that stands on its own. That’s a valid argument in my mind as well.

Abstract art has existed since the Tang dynasty (618–907). The rise of abstract art movements came in the late 19th century, when artists began to deviate from classical and traditional modes of painting.

This style of work gives you the freedom to explore the artwork and assign your own meaning to the piece. In my opinion, this intensely personal process enriches a viewer's experience of an artwork.

All of these ideas and comments are some of the reasons I’m pursuing making abstract paintings for my project.

“Red Feather and Blocks,” 5” x 3.75” acrylic, charcoal, cardboard (mixed media).

Small Paintings (Abstract Warm Up)

I thought I’d share these small (5” x 3.75”) warmup paintings that I can mount on greeting cards and send people some (small) original works. I think they’re really cool. I worked with the theme of “circles” and color theory on these (the group of four images). I’m sure that’s obvious. I’m quite pleased with them. Not masterpieces, but interesting nonetheless. I see improvement with every piece I paint, and I find joy and meaning in every one I do.

Lately, I’ve had people comment and question my painting journey. I want to be perfectly clear: I’m on an exploration, a journey of discovery. I know I’m not Picasso, and I’m not trying to be. I’m not interested in the “academic” approach to painting or drawing either. I have nothing against any of that, and I’m open to learning if it helps my journey, but I’m simply not interested in painting apples and peaches in Rembrandt lighting (his apples are amazing, just not what I want to pursue).

I will learn and grow by doing. I posted a while back about painting a piece every day; that’s what I’m doing (at least one). I’m not after commercial success or “likes” or recognition; I’m simply trying to express some of my ideas about the human condition through putting paint and marks on a surface. That’s all. Whether people like them or not, that’s what I’m going to do. And if I end up painting pieces that really speak to me and my project, I’ll put them in my book. If I don’t, I won’t.

I believe there’s a part of me that is rebelling against photography a little bit too. I love the craft I spent my entire adult life in, but for the past few years, it has felt very mechanical and distant to me. There’s a part of me that feels “bored” with it. I feel like I’ve seen everything a dozen times. I’m not interested in that at all. It was time to break out the paint. I’ve threatened for years that I would eventually paint, and here I am. Something inside of me knew that long before I started. A big part of my (later) life has been about growing, changing, and challenging myself. What was left for me to do in photography? Not much. I accomplished almost everything I wanted to do. So I’ve changed lanes a little bit anyway.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I will always have a darkroom, a camera, and the ability to make photographs. And I will. For now, however, I want to explore and learn to paint. I’m loving it! I think that will occupy the majority of my time for the foreseeable future (with a bit of photography in there too).

The one thing that I don’t want to do in my sixties is live life burdened with what others think or feel about what I do or don’t do and feel any pressure to do what others think I should. I want to love, live in peace, find joy in everything I pursue, and not have any of the world’s pressure influence me (money, recognition, awards, etc.). That time of my life is over, and I’m happier for it.

I’ve tried to adopt the motto, “Awe, humility, and gratitude in every day.” That’s what I want to pursue and have in my life.

I really appreciate the kindness of the people I’ve known over the years. I’m honored to have met so many wonderful human beings. I have wonderful memories of good times and great people. I’m forever grateful for that. So, whether you like what I’m doing now or not, it’s okay. We’re still good. You’ll never offend or hurt me if you don’t like or agree with what I do. We’re individual human beings and have different tastes and ideas about life and reality. I get it. I want to encourage you to find something that truly brings you joy. In Beckerian terms, “meaning and significance.” That’s all that really matters. You need no one’s approval or “likes” for what you find enjoyable and meaningful. Just do it.

Before Denial: A Primitive Painting

I’m exploring some ideas about figures. I have posted some abstract figures before, but I’m trying to work with ideas closer to the theories I’m exploring through art.

I had an idea that came from a book I read last year (and I’ve posted before about it) called “Denial: Self-Deception, False Beliefs, and the Origins of the Human Mind,” a book by Ajit Varki. It is an expansion and adaptation of a Danny Brower manuscript that he left behind (he recently died).

The book presents a theory about how the human mind evolved and the obstacles it overcame that allowed us to be the way we are today. The theory is based on the idea that denial of reality is a factor in how the human mind evolved and how we became intelligent, creative, and innovative.

Varki and Brower believe that humans are the world's ultimate risk-takers, ignoring scientific facts such as the dangers of smoking and climate change. They believe that this denial mechanism became essential once our brain evolved a more comprehensive understanding of ourselves and others. They call it “full theory of mind” or “theory of mind” (TOM).

Denial offers a warning about the dangers inherent in our ability to ignore reality. Denial makes you doubt your own perceptions; it is gaslighting and disturbing, and the effects of it are hidden and unconscious. There are some very powerful theories in this writing, mainly about how humans became conscious, or the point where we realized that we would die. Varki follows through with a detailed analysis of the steps that it took to get there, or here, and the price we’ve paid for it.

The Birth of Man (La Naissance de l' Homme)

Several years ago, a friend invited me to Brussels, Belgium. He wanted me to meet some of the local photography group and make a couple of wet collodion images for them. I obliged. Brussel’s is a wonderful city. We enjoyed our time there. In fact, we went back a couple of times after that, too.

“The Birth of Man,” Whole Plate Ambrotype (Wet Collodion), May Claerhout (1939–2016), Brussels, Belgium 2009

I ended up doing a group portrait (or maybe a few), and I also made a plate of this wonderful piece of work by May Claerhout (1939–2016). She was a Belgian artist and made these amazing sculptures. This one sits in the courtyard of the Belgium National Archives; it’s called “The Birth of Man (La Naissance de l'Homme).

When I see this image and think about its narrative, I can’t help but think about Becker’s writing on “immortality projects.” In his 1974 Pulitzer Prize-winning book, The Denial of Death, he argues that “the basic motivation for human behavior is our biological need to control our basic anxiety, to deny the terror of death.” (Keen 1973). Becker suggested that a significant function of culture is to provide successful ways to engage in death denial.

Becker describes the human pursuit of “immortality projects” (or causa sui), in which we create or become part of something that we feel will outlast our time on earth. In doing so, we feel that we become heroic and part of something eternal that will never die, compared to the physical body that will eventually die. This gives human beings the belief that our lives have meaning, purpose, and significance in the grand scheme of things.

This is true for any piece of artwork, including books, buildings (especially those with names on them), building great wealth, or even having children. This is the human desire for immortality, literally or symbolically. It’s a very strong urge, and whether we admit it or not, we all participate. What purpose does it serve? As Becker said, it gives us meaning and purpose. When we feel that we have purpose and meaning in our lives, we feel psychologically secure; this quells death anxiety or existential dread. We need this to function every day.

Claerhout’s piece speaks to death anxiety in so many ways for me. The title alone is revealing. What does “The Birth of Man” imply? For me, it implies that the death of man is also waiting, silent, and hidden. Buried deep in the psychological bushes of our minds. There are five figures represented here—maybe symbolizing earth, air, fire, water, and spirit? I find it interesting that the top figure is stretching and reaching toward the heavens. This also symbolizes a type of immortality. It says that we’re not really going to die; we live on after this physical existence—literal immortality.

That belief has always been a great anxiety buffer—religion—but it comes with a lot of baggage and a heavy price (look at history and the role religion has played in death and suffering). In the 19th century, Nietzsche said, “God is dead.” And he goes on to say, “God remains dead. And we have killed him.“ This is often misquoted or misunderstood. What he meant was that humans had relied on religious beliefs for thousands or tens of thousands of years to quell death anxiety, and now technology and science have replaced them. Some say those are our new gods, and we rely on them as our ancestors relied on the religious gods. We’re always looking for cultural constructs to lean on to buffer our existential dread.

Existential Dread No. 8

“Existential Dread No. 8,” 8” x 10” acrylic and charcoal on paper.

“Existential Dread No. 8,” 8” x 10” acrylic and charcoal on paper.

“Existential Dread No. 8,” 8” x 10” acrylic and charcoal on paper.

Thirty Paintings a Month

I paint every day. Sometimes, I’m able to make two or even three paintings a day. Mostly, I do “warm up” paintings: ideas for possibly larger pieces in the future. These “paint sketches” are really important for me. They do two things: first, they allow me to apply paint, make marks, and give me ideas for larger pieces (as I said). Secondly, I get better with each painting. With every painting I make, I learn something. One thing I’ve realized (probably from making photographs for years) is that I’m too “uptight” and too rigid. I’m slowly learning to reverse this; it’s difficult. In a lot of ways, I’m trying to unlearn what I did in photography. Yes, there are a lot of things that help me because of my knowledge of photography, light, composition, and even color theory. But there are a few things that make painting difficult; one of them is rigidity. I’m learning to loosen up and allow spontaneous and free-flowing movements and experiments to happen. It’s a great feeling.

I turn 60 years old this month. I was thinking about this the other day. It’s a strange feeling in some ways. It seems for the last decade I’ve been revisiting events of my youth, or at least exploring my interests as a younger adult. After my military service, I started a business making free-standing wood-burning stoves and fireplace inserts. I oversaw a shop of four welders and two finish line people. I made good money and enjoyed the work. I built hundreds of stoves myself and was efficient and skilled in metal fabrication. I was also proficient in all kinds of welding, including MIG, TIG, and stick welding, as well as brazing and other minor metal fabrication skills. This came to an end because of environmental issues concerning emissions and laws passed that prevented the sale of the stoves (the late 1980s). I ended up at the university, which, in the end, was a good thing.

A few years ago, I started metal fabrication again. I was doing blacksmithing and bladesmithing work. People asked, “Where did you learn to do this kind of thing?” They seemed to be a bit shocked and puzzled. It wasn’t either for me; it was taking a step back to my younger years and revisiting the skills and knowledge that I spent so much time doing. I’m not sure why I did it—maybe to clear my head and create in a different way. It just felt right and comfortable. I really enjoyed the nostalgia and feelings of shaping steel and working around a hot forge and welder again. It wasn’t foreign or weird to me at all.

That brings me to painting. Again, some people are wondering, "What is this all about?” Well, remember, I did four years at undergraduate school, and I majored in photography, visual art, and communication (with a minor in Spanish). In that emphasis of visual art, I did the introductions to painting, drawing, color theory, art history, etc. I also completed 8 credit hours of “studio art.” I did painting and mixed media, with a lot of photography involved. Along with those courses, I completed two courses in “painting on photographs,” a beginning course and an advanced course. And I also have a graduate degree, an M.F.A.I.A. That’s a master of fine arts in interdisciplinary art. That is self-explanatory, I think. My point is that I have a history of what I’m doing and have been doing. I’m simply revisiting my past and using it to flesh out my new work and project. And I love it. If I take up surfing or paragliding, you’ll know I’m in unfamiliar waters (no pun).

I find it interesting that people tend to want you to stay in the lane they “know you for,” and when you veer from that, it seems a bit apostate to them—some even seem disappointed. If they understood your background and life experiences, they might think differently. In the end, it doesn’t matter. I just thought I would share what I’d been thinking about entering my sixth decade on this pale blue dot. It’s not surprising that I find myself painting or making knives; at least to me, it seems like a kind of natural course of self-exploration. It’s paid off for me both mentally and conceptually. It’s given me more to work with on this project.

Thirty paintings a month. It’s not about the number; it’s not even relevant, really. It’s about commitment, learning, and growing. As I said earlier, I gain so much from each painting I do. I’m trying to be present for the journey. To really be grateful and appreciate each day and each piece of work I make. Ultimately, that’s what’s important to me. Painting, like photography, is something you have to practice to become efficient enough to accomplish what you want to accomplish. In the end, I hope to publish several of my paintings, along with my photographs, in my book to make a complete, cohesive, interdisciplinary work about human behavior and existential terror. That’s my goal.

One more thing. I’ve posted a few times about how beneficial our walks are to me creatively. You might find this article interesting if you subscribe to this theory about walking and creativity. Check it out:
How Walking Fosters Creativity

The Color Blue and the Number Three

In some Native American cultures, the color blue represents the sky, water, and the spirit world. It can also symbolize peace, serenity, and spiritual awareness. Blue is often used in ceremonies related to prayer, meditation, and vision quests. In Native American mythology, the number three represents the vertical picture of the world. It represents the space between the Heavens and the Earth.

The Iroquois tribe also expressed the significance of the number three by smoking from a pipe three times. Traditional Native American gardeners have planted the Three Sisters (corn, beans, and squash) in many different regions of North America. Some versions of the Three Sisters legends involve the crops personified as three women who separate from each other only to find out that they are stronger together.

Existential Dread No. 5

There is something that I find both intriguing and fascinating about non-objective abstracts. Yesterday, I posted my representational abstract, “The Ballad of Curtis Loew,” based on a song and memory. This is a painting I did today based on an idea from within me—nothing representational or based on anything physical, at least when I started the painting. I’ll let the viewer decide what they see or feel in reference to the title. I have to say, I do love the underpainting on this. It gives the piece a lot of depth. It looks really nice in real life.

In the context of evolution, human existential crises may arise from our heightened cognitive abilities and self-awareness. As humans developed intricate thinking processes and self-reflective capacities, an increased awareness of mortality, the quest for meaning, and contemplation of one's existence became more pronounced. While an existential crisis isn't necessarily a flaw, it can be viewed as a consequence of our advanced cognitive functions. It might function as a mechanism for individuals to scrutinize and assess their position in the world, fostering personal growth and the formulation of coping strategies. In this regard, it can be perceived as a beneficial function that motivates individuals to explore purpose and meaning in their lives.

Ernest Becker said, “What does it mean to be a self-conscious animal? The idea is ludicrous if it is not monstrous. It means to know that one is food for worms. This is the terror: to have emerged from nothing, to have a name, a consciousness of self, deep inner feelings, an excruciating inner yearning for life and self-expression, and with all this yet to die. It seems like a hoax, which is why one type of cultural man rebels openly against the idea of God. What kind of deity would crate such complex and fancy worm food?” (The Denial of Death)

How Self-Awareness Awakens You

Do you think you’re self-aware? How do you know if you are? Here are a couple of questions you can ask yourself:. Do you understand your strengths and weaknesses? Do you practice empathy? Do you recognize your biases? Do you seek personal growth? Etcetera.

Being self-aware is the first step in understanding both who you are and your position in the world or your culture. And yes, it does feed back to death anxiety and terror management theory. However, part of coming to terms with mortality relies heavily on self-awareness. I often quote Albert Camus; he said, "There is only one liberty: to come to terms with death; thereafter, anything is possible." The only way to do that is through self-awareness.

Have you ever been around a person who isn’t very self-aware? I have, and it’s very frustrating and annoying. When a person isn’t self-aware, you may see egotistical or even narcissistic behavior, as well as a complete disregard for other people’s intelligence or feelings. It’s a painful and disturbing experience. I’m on board for people to “toot their own horn” or share their accomplishments through the avenues where they find meaning and purpose. There’s nothing wrong with that. Where it goes off the rails for me is when they seek to “be better” or even belittle others with these accomplishments. When it becomes a competition, it can get ugly. This is the malignant result of existential dread. It’s nasty stuff. Social media is full of it.

Let’s stay on the positive side of dealing with meaning and self-awareness. Here are some questions you can ask yourself regarding this topic:. They are from a course I just completed about existential anxiety:

What are some accomplishments you have already achieved in your life that you find meaningful?

What goals or ambitions do you have for the rest of your life?

Who are the people who are most important to you in your life?

How do you demonstrate importance to these people in your life?

How do these behaviors, goals, achievements, ambitions, and intentions align with your culture and worldview?

These will help you start the process of both being self-aware and coming to terms with how you buffer death anxiety or existential dread. Which are kind of the same things or at least one leads to the other. This is the process I’ve used to become more self-aware and awaken to memories and meaning in my life. It’s the well-spring where I draw my inspiration and creative life from.

My view from my painting station. I listen to music, make marks and throw paint onto surfaces. A beautiful life.

Connecting the Dots: Using Photographs and Paintings

Happy 2024! I hope this year brings you gratitude, humility, and awe. That’s what I try to remind myself of every day. I’m not into “holidays” and conspicuous consumption, but I do wish you a very healthy, happy, and joyful year!

I’m working hard and thinking deeply about what I’m trying to do with this body of work and writing. It’s a process that’s always evolving and changing, as it should. I think I’ve connected some of the ideas that I’m working on to the paintings I’m making and the photographs that I’ve made.

For me, photography falls short in the pursuit of fleshing out these theories and ideas. While it plays an important role in this project, I’m beginning to think it’s going to be used in a very different way than I first intended. In the end, I'm going to try to pair the photographs and paintings as diptychs (roughly speaking). The idea is that one shows the reality that we all subscribe to (the photograph), and the other (the painting) shows a clearer, non-representational, deconstructed reality that we try to bury, psychologically speaking (the denial of death and death anxiety). It’s a wonderful revelation for me and a big step in my work. To say I’m excited would be an understatement.

“Painting is a language, and brush strokes are verbs.”

— Albert Irvin

I’ve been reading about artists like Af Klint, Kandisky, Mondrian, Popova, Malevich, Klee, Rothko (which I like a lot), Pollock, and other abstract painters of the 19th and 20th centuries. And in the 21st century, artists like Paul Tonkin, Albert Irvin, who said, “Painting is a language, and brush strokes are verbs,” and Dan Perfect. Most of the older artists were dealing with theosophy. I don’t personally subscribe to the idea of theosophy, but I can understand why these artists were using it as the basis for their work. I really connect and understand what Rothko said about his “recipe” for a work of art.

“The recipe of a work of art—its ingredients—how to make it—the formula:

There must be a clear preoccupation with death—intimations of mortality.
Tragic art, romantic art, etc., deals with the knowledge of death.
Sensuality. Our basis for being concrete about the world. It is a lustful relationship with things that exist.
Tension. Either conflict or curbed desire.
Irony: This is a modern ingredient—the self-effacement and examination by which a man, for an instant, can go on to something else.
Wit and play... for the human element. The ephemeral and chance... for the human element.
Hope: 10% to make the tragic concept more endurable.

I measure these ingredients very carefully when I paint a picture. It is always the form that follows these elements, and the picture results from the proportions of these elements.”

— Mark Rothko, Achim Borchardt-Hume (ed.). Rothko (London: Tate Gallery, 2008), p. 91

In the pursuit of making this happen, I’ve been selecting color photographs of the work I’ve made and doing a variety of abstract paintings of them—abstract deconstructions, if you will. I’ll work with the non-color photographs after I establish what I want to do with the color work. The color photographs are much more complicated to translate. I am making progress. Selecting forms, colors, and shading is a difficult task. I never know when the painting is complete. I’m trying to reduce the image to the most basic forms and use color as an expression of the (hidden) reality of the object.

“To see the world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.”

— William Blake