I somehow simultaneously believe in mystery and non-mystery.
I believe in the beauty of an Agnes Martin, a Helen Frankthaler, a Clyfford Still, because you can’t put your finger on why they make you feel the way you do, except you know you do.
I’m interested both in who is allowed to make art and who is allowed to look at art.
I think the key to unlocking accessibility to unlocking production.
I think people need to understand the process.
I don’t like what Maggi Hambling said about ‘it just coming to her’. I think Agnes Martin was full of crap when she called it inspiration. Arne Glimcher wrote how her big pink stripe paintings resembled the windows and the view outside. Simone de Beauvoir wrote that the Mandarins was not based on her life, yet it echoed it eerily.
Agnes Martin the sacred and the secular.
Evelyn Waugh wrote On the reverse side of that title page there is a mysterious author’s note, signed with Waugh’s initials. It reads: “I am not I: thou art not he or she: they are not they.”
Yet in the first manuscript, several times he writes Hugh in place of Sebastion – Hugh Lyon serving as inspiration.
I think it important for artists to admit they are not mythical creatures with some special power. An artist draws from the world around them. To deny it is to keep themselves cloaked and elite. To admit its based on the world would be to allow others access, no longer mythological.
But that is exactly why it is important.
It doesn’t make me love these novels or these works to know that they are a reworking of life. Of course imagination comes into it.
Yet I do believe in admitting reality to disperse notions of the mythological artist.