Artists’ Aches

On post-vernissage depressions and other artists’ pains

(introductory text for a debate, Corso Leuven)

‘Art is also hard labor, you have to be in good shape to do it.  It’s yealous and will tolerate no rival, wich means you often neglect your family, or even do without a family.  It means loneliness, wrestling with the existence of this personal art, a battle to the point of destruction – and how many artists have been destroyed!  Is there a price grand enough for that?  Maria Lassnig

It sometimes seems as though you only exist if what you do is measurable, controllable and clearly definable. Everything has to function, to generate output, to produce profit. Or it has to relax, entertain, be easily digestible. And above all: it has to fit within predefined frameworks, comply with norms. This makes the position of the artist difficult on the one hand, and on the other hand profoundly necessary — though extremely vulnerable.

Our effort belongs to a different order altogether. We operate in the margins, avoiding fixed structures because we question them. Time and again we confront our own limits, placing ourselves — mentally as well — in dangerous territory. We can only be ‘authentic’ and evolve if we stay close to ourselves, if we keep undermining every form of certainty, if we repeatedly dare to leap into the unknown. We avoid easy success and distrust commercial recognition. Artists are strange people. We balance on the edge of doubt and (un)certainty. We go all the way, sensors constantly alert, focused and at the same time open to new impulses. It has to get under the skin. A thick skin simply won’t do. Vulnerability as an instrument: permeability. The willingness to allow sensitivity, even to deploy it. The artist’s skin — the boundary between inside and outside — is paper-thin. On — or even beyond — the threshold of pain and despair, the strongest works often come into being.

At the same time, it requires immense resilience to remain upright within that vulnerability. To do something with it, to translate it into a material form that speaks. To endure waiting and criticism, again and again transforming them into new energy. We expose the fruit of our strange labour to the gaze of the viewer. Or to the critical eye of colleagues or experts — which can be merciless. Even when recognition comes, when the work ‘stands’, it is never finished. We begin again, resisting the temptation to linger in the comfort zone. We can’t help it: the longing, the compelling necessity, the love for what we do is greater than the fear. But sometimes the fear is overwhelming, all-consuming.

It happens to me quite often at the start of a new exhibition. After working towards it relentlessly — sometimes searching and groping, at other times with absolute conviction, almost in a trance — giving everything. Close to myself in the studio, works grow one by one, a symbiosis of what presents itself in my head, my belly, through my hand… Eventually something tells me it’s right, that it has to be this way — but what way exactly? The exhibition always comes just a little too early; there is still so much left to do. And then it’s there, hanging. Okay, now let go. It is what it is, no longer mine. Then the audience arrives — a light euphoria if it goes well. And then, gradually, the panic: the black hole, exhaustion hitting like a hammer, doubt creeping in — does any of this even make sense? And I’ll never be able to do this again… I call it my post-vernissage depression.

On a material and financial level, artists are rarely at ease either. The result of years of trial and error, hard labour and moments of inspiration, in most cases doesn’t even amount to what an unskilled worker earns. We won’t go into that today — but it has an impact.

Autonomy, mental space, being able to determine your own boundaries — all of this is indispensable for free creation. It requires contexts that allow it. And it is extremely fragile. We all know what it’s like to be blocked. We all have our own ways and rituals to deal with it. Sometimes rest and silence help, sometimes reading or confronting the work of other artists is inspiring — but not infrequently people reach for ‘harder’ means such as alcohol or drugs. As human beings, we all need some form of support…

As an artist, you live in paradox, on the edge of a blade, with an eternal doubt that — when things go well — does not quite tip into absolute despair, because over time a kind of underlying, intuitive trust develops. And because art exists. It creates beauty and meaning. The life of an artist is vulnerable.

This is also true because of the way artists relate to time. Empty time is essential. Patience, passive time, even boredom. Emptiness in which something new can germinate, in which inspiration can arise. To outsiders, we sometimes appear lazy, idle, indifferent… They do not see the continuous, prolonged process of maturation. The years of practice, the hundredfold failure before a breakthrough occurs. The perception is so different from that of the top athlete, who rests after hard training.

Not without reason do we seek each other out, hoping to find support in one another. Not only because the loneliness of the work can be deadly, but also because we recognise each other’s struggles and can value each other’s efforts. Because it is necessary to be critical yet compassionate with one another when the next gaping void pulls us towards despair. And because it does so much good to be able to share moments of joy and deep emotion.

Our vulnerability, our otherness, is not only a necessary breeding ground for the quality of the work we create, but also for questioning and keeping open the edges of the system within which we and our fellow citizens function. Is it too much to ask that society values this in the form of appropriate care, a healthy environment, attention to the specific basic needs of artists? From the awareness that strong, vulnerable art is humus for a healthy, livable society? It is often said that the level of development of a society can be measured by how it treats the most vulnerable among its inhabitants. What, then, does the way a society treats its artists say? I simply ask the question out loud.

Our vulnerability is our strength. It is in that liminal zone that our work can deepen and evolve — that we create consolation and imagine new worlds.

Lies Daenen

July 2015