Kaylie Abela: Art is Hard: Getting Started

I came across some notes in my notebook that I kept in 2007. It seems I wanted to organize and explain different ways to begin a piece of artwork.

Making art is hard and scary. Many times, especially in academia, your work (aka vulnerable projection of yourself) is subjected to immediate critique. Of course the degree to which this effects us is relative to our own personal traits; our own sensitivity to something as harmless as teasing from loved ones can predict the degree of anxiety that will come from sharing our artwork. Sometimes those of us in the more sensitive range develop "artist's block," also known as an excuse not to begin work. These are just some techniques I've found helpful in the past; they are tailored to 2D work (I'll use "your canvas" as a general term for all media platforms) but I think these ideas can be applied to other fields of creating as well.

Give the piece an identity before intentional imagery even begins. It's like introducing yourself to your surface. One way I've successfully done this is by relying on craft before even beginning 2D imagery. Constructing something and focusing on the task at hand can depersonalize the experience of beginning a new piece of work. Instead of the intimidating "next piece" or means-by-which-your-most-important-internal-thoughts-and-feelings-appear-visually, your surface just becomes an "object" from altering it, which requires little engagement. Examples may be carefully wrapping the canvas in paper (this gives it a strong, smooth drum-like surface) or simply adding paper or other fibers to personify the canvas. I did this for Thunderstorm at the Chicken Coop and other small works.

Similarly, using a systematic gesture before beginning imagery may discourage conceptual thought (in a good way). Autonomy works in favor of the blank mind. An example may be creating two circles, one big and one small, like I did with Targets, which yielded 12 pieces. My goal was not to paint 12 eyeballs, but to use the simplicity of a target symbol as a jump-off point to make very fast-paced paintings.

The perfect white surface of a (usually expensive) fresh piece of paper or a newly stretched canvas is very intimidating. All artists know this. I had a great teacher in college who told us a story about his own undergraduate experience, wherein his professor noticed his stumped agony before beginning a drawing. The professor took the $12 sheet of paper, threw it on the ground, and stomped all over it with his undoubtedly dirty studio boots. He then handed it back and told my professor to start drawing. It doesn't always have to be this dramatic- an acrylic wash or light charcoal rubbings (I even sometimes close my eyes for the first few seconds!) will do.

An irregular shaped surface functions as an image. If no subject matter is planned or it won't harm or compete with the planned subject matter, beginning with an irregular shaped surface is an option. Moving from regulation sized rectangles is an advancement for any artist, because it takes the work out of the context that regulation implies, which is generally student made and/or amateur. This is a tricky thing to try, however, because many shape-alterers are cliche and the very thought of an irregular shapes as surfaces for 2D work turn off many art appreciators (which can include jurors, curators, gallery owners, and other important people). But if you're really stuck, considering torn, burnt, or rough, or curved edges can be a fun way to fall into your piece, again, before imagery beings.

It is my personal point of view that concepts are better in writing. Artists are constantly told by others that they "have an eye for it." While this is surely true, it's a mistake to forget your first art courses and the importance of balance, line, color, shape texture, etc. There are composition structures and color combinations that are proven to advance the success of a piece. So while conceptual ideas are fantastic driving forces, they should be backstage to visual fundamentals. This even applies to art that is intended to illustrate a clear point of view. If Diego Rivera's murals were mucky in color or lacked movement and style, he wouldn't be "Diego Rivera." Also, consistently editing, changing, adding to and reconsidering your artist statement is an amazing tool. It will teach you more about yourself, how to discuss your work with others (especially in high-pressure situations, should you meet the owner of your favorite local gallery in an elevator...)

Finishing a piece that satisfies you proposes a new problem: Will your next pice match up? Will it be as worthy of attention, as successful, as good? The potential for failure is difficult to accept (in all areas of our lives, right?) I noted these ideas as a reminder to myself that the important thing is to keep going. If you don't keep creating, failing sometimes and succeeding others, no piece will ever match up. I also asked myself to really investigate how my mind was working and to recognize the difference between reasons and excuses for my "artist block." I just wanted to share some thoughts; I'd love to hear of other ways you've stayed motivated or tricked yourself into creating another piece as I've done in the past, so please leave a comment if you have one!

Also, there are books written on this very concept, some of which I have read and will share my responses in the next few weeks.

Pieces I mentioned: