9″x 12″ Pen & Ink, with watercolor, on 140lb cold press Arches rough.
11″ x 15″ Watercolor, ink.
Artists as diverse as Pollock, Klee, Rauschenberg and Piranesi in his Prison etchings–as well as most two dimensional art before the Renaissance– use a dispersed visual field, rather than focal point composition. This is characteristic of most of my work, as well. In focal point composition, there are one or more fixed points, or centers, which invite the eye to radiate out, placing the rest of the field in relation to each specific point of view. In a dispersed field, there are no fixed points, but rather a network of pathways, like organic rhizomes, inviting the viewer to wander freely through the visual field.
11″ x 15″ Watercolor, ink
on ArtFinder, and
on my web portfolio here ART BY WILLARD
For photos on this blog, click MY ART on the right panel and scroll down.
40″ x 26″ Acrylic on canvas. PAINTED OVER
There was a time, wasn’t there… when poets, in their rooms at night, artists without patrons, would console themselves in the belief that–though the world would go on without them–there would be this thing…like a great house, or a city shaped like the future, to take up their work, and give it a place and a home. A room at the top of the stairs, like the one where they sat, but filled with light, windows, doors that opened to rooms like cathedrals, crowded with those who would be their descendents, their righful heirs?
What does it mean for us, now that the masters of death, in their corporate towers, have declared that it will all come to nothing, that the glaciers will melt and the seas will rise and they too, in their gated and armed fortress, will no more survive than the masses they have starved and bombed and drowned and burned… and all that we have made, the great buildings, the art, the music–all of it, gone?
I wonder if it would make more sense, Zen like, if what we make, we make in ashes in the rain… write our novels on Magic Slates, lifting the film, erasing, what we write a page at a time–or mantras in colored sand.
Why do we fool ourselves? Why do we pretend that any of this matters? Is it, perhaps, that it has always been like this? Always, the end of the world already here.. so quiet, we didn’t hear its coming?
#778 follows the text. 22″ x 26″ Acrylic on stretched canvas.
Subjectivity in judging art. How does one judge one’s own work?
I see ‘the viewer,’ not as singular, but as a collective–a whole cultural constellation filtered through each individual, so while each sees as an individual, we also see through the eyes and mind lent to us by their culture, in a particular historical moment.
Subjectivity is complex and inclusive, which means it’s possible to develop our capacity to make judgements, which, while not being “objective,’ are much larger than what one usually means by “subjective.” Such judgements are not fixed verdicts–as they change (or rather, what they point to changes), as culture changes, but good critics–rare as they are–know this.
John Berger. Hubert Damisch.
My question speaks to this. In assessing the value of one’s work, doesn’t there cling to our judgement, a remnant of belief (trust, would be a better word)… that we are able to discern a value that is not so limited, that is not chopped and diced into disconnected individual ‘subjectivities,’ the way we are taught to see ourselves in late capitalism, value and meaning that is inclusive, an emergent vision of some part of what it means to be human in the world?