Painting, Eating, Smoking

Painting, Eating, Smoking, by Philip Guston. A vision of the future

I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive. A year ago, six months ago, I thought that I was an artist. I no longer think about it, I am.

-- Henry Miller Tropic of Cancer, 1934

Its funny. Well, actually its not funny at all, how things can take on different meanings at different times in your life. The above passage by Henry Miller spoke to me very clearly seven years ago. Back then, it was a declaration, that the beauty of art lies in the fact that it is undefinable. Therefore to be an artist one only has to call themselves so. I found out very quickly that while it might be easy to say the words, its not so easy living up to them. I used that Miller qoute on the front page of my portfolio which got me into artschool, and on my way to what I thought would be greatness. Instead what I got over my 5 year stint in the artschool system was a heavy dose of reality and life, of which I have still not fully recovered.

Lying in bed last night, pondering my future, I returned to those powerful words written by Henry Miller so long ago. Although now I understand what he was really saying. That at the age of 45, having gone through life as a husband, a worker at a telegraph company, and as a father. After leaving his wife, his child, and his job, and loafing around for years, drinking, bumbing money, screwing as many women as he could, only now was he at a point where his romantic visions as an artist meant nothing. He was to define what an artist is, and not the other way around.

Now, moving into a yaletown warehouse live work space is hardly shedding away the neccesities of life to make great art. I am certainly not making a direct comparison between my situation and Miller's. I am though, at a point where I just don't care anymore. Do I care if I am successful. Not in the least. My only concern is to avoid eviction from the insane rent that I will be paying. Am I happy? I don't know yet.

I had secretly, well maybe not so secretly, desired the life that I will be living. The studio, the artist, living alone, left to the devices that fuel art. It was what I was introduced to at an impressionable age. Images of Jackson Pollock in his studio, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, covered in paint. Of course these images gave later generations of artists loads of ammo to rebel against, but that imagery has still found an audience and I suppose it always will. What I didn't understand was the desparity, loneliness, and utter hopelessness that Pollock, and the countless others like him suffered to be able to produce. I am at that point now, and I am scared.

I will miss being read snippets of the morning paper, with intermittent requests for answers to crossword puzzles, even though I never knew the answers. I will miss making breakfast with the music on before anyone wakes up. I will miss the long drives on Sunday to the suburbs of the lower mainland. Most of all I will miss lying in bed with my treasure, which no longer belongs to me.

I have spent many years convincing myself that I am not cut out for a life like this, and now there is nothing left to do but to forge ahead with a dream that has gathered much dust and seems a little out of date. Do I want this? I have no choice...

I have money, I have recources, I have hopes. Seven years ago I thought I was an artist, now I don't really care what it is I am. This is a good place to start. I will paint, I will eat and drink, and god damn it, I will smoke.