It is art that makes life, makes interest, makes importance, for our consideration and
application of these things, and I know of no substitute whatever for the force and beauty of its process.’ — Henry James
I have never known anyone for whom his art was so much his life and his purpose than my college printmaking professor David Faber. And, while he may be disappointed that I did not become a printmaker in his footsteps, he should know that his craft and his teaching were a lightening rod and a validation for the art I try to live today, in this writing, in my studio art, in my work, and in my relationship with the world.
David liked to talk about synesthesia as he walked us through various printmaking processes. He taught us to pay attention to the smell of the ink and the mineral spirits, to feel the smoothness of a fresh zinc plate or clean press bed, to hear the pop of ink being mixed with the knife and to tune the smack of a properly inked brayer, to appreciate the richness of good paper and to find the rhythm and balance in wiping an intaglio plate. Feel the time. Become the process. Revel in the result.
It was all there. (It makes me emotional just in reflection and I haven’t pulled a print with David in 15 years.) His reverence, his sense of purpose. His teaching. He praised and prodded. Challenged and encouraged. Shared excitement and wonder. He was still learning – not about printmaking as a process, but as a unique tool of creation, of self, for each of his students. Art was life.
What could we do with it? What would we do with it?
In graduate school, my department head Steve Murakishi approached things quite a bit differently. He was cynical. He was cryptic, often acerbic. “Irony is dead.” Process was meaningless. Art was about the idea, the communication. He sparred intellectually with us, with the world, not merely as gamesmanship but as a test of meddle. He was a master at creating a void and pushing you into it. And, he would never throw you a rope to get out, no matter how much you tried and struggled. As an artist, that was your personal charge. Toughen up. Get smart. Be relevant. Art was life.
What could we do with it? What would we do with it?
These two artists could not be more different. In fact, I suspect by their nature and the intensity of their purpose and approach, they could probably barely stand to be in the same room together. And yet, they come together in me, in my practice, in my life. These two artists have had as much influence on my personal development as anyone outside of my family. I love them both for it.
Navigating their contradictions is not about what is right or wrong, better or worse, contemporary or historical, relevant or irrelevant. Their contradiction is art. And, if we leave it as such rather than position ourselves behind ideology or judgment, one or the other, we can challenge ourselves with the values of both. We can use it to stay in constant motion, learning, acknowledging our own preferences and contradictions and using them as fuel to evolve our selves.
We must stay present so we can find ourselves in it all. Process. We (make) work so we can reach out and engage the world. Practice. We critique and refine so we can continue to find our way. Purpose.
And, this is what we can do with it. This is what I try to do with it. Because, this is life. And, these are the lessons of the artist.
application of these things, and I know of no substitute whatever for the force and beauty of its process.’ — Henry James
I have never known anyone for whom his art was so much his life and his purpose than my college printmaking professor David Faber. And, while he may be disappointed that I did not become a printmaker in his footsteps, he should know that his craft and his teaching were a lightening rod and a validation for the art I try to live today, in this writing, in my studio art, in my work, and in my relationship with the world.
David liked to talk about synesthesia as he walked us through various printmaking processes. He taught us to pay attention to the smell of the ink and the mineral spirits, to feel the smoothness of a fresh zinc plate or clean press bed, to hear the pop of ink being mixed with the knife and to tune the smack of a properly inked brayer, to appreciate the richness of good paper and to find the rhythm and balance in wiping an intaglio plate. Feel the time. Become the process. Revel in the result.
It was all there. (It makes me emotional just in reflection and I haven’t pulled a print with David in 15 years.) His reverence, his sense of purpose. His teaching. He praised and prodded. Challenged and encouraged. Shared excitement and wonder. He was still learning – not about printmaking as a process, but as a unique tool of creation, of self, for each of his students. Art was life.
What could we do with it? What would we do with it?
In graduate school, my department head Steve Murakishi approached things quite a bit differently. He was cynical. He was cryptic, often acerbic. “Irony is dead.” Process was meaningless. Art was about the idea, the communication. He sparred intellectually with us, with the world, not merely as gamesmanship but as a test of meddle. He was a master at creating a void and pushing you into it. And, he would never throw you a rope to get out, no matter how much you tried and struggled. As an artist, that was your personal charge. Toughen up. Get smart. Be relevant. Art was life.
What could we do with it? What would we do with it?
These two artists could not be more different. In fact, I suspect by their nature and the intensity of their purpose and approach, they could probably barely stand to be in the same room together. And yet, they come together in me, in my practice, in my life. These two artists have had as much influence on my personal development as anyone outside of my family. I love them both for it.
Navigating their contradictions is not about what is right or wrong, better or worse, contemporary or historical, relevant or irrelevant. Their contradiction is art. And, if we leave it as such rather than position ourselves behind ideology or judgment, one or the other, we can challenge ourselves with the values of both. We can use it to stay in constant motion, learning, acknowledging our own preferences and contradictions and using them as fuel to evolve our selves.
We must stay present so we can find ourselves in it all. Process. We (make) work so we can reach out and engage the world. Practice. We critique and refine so we can continue to find our way. Purpose.
And, this is what we can do with it. This is what I try to do with it. Because, this is life. And, these are the lessons of the artist.
