A museumgoer and an artist, I think a lot about the symbiosis between looker and maker. When I am looking, I look quietly, waiting for the art to speak to me, show me, move me, surprise me. When I am making, I try not to think, and to just let my marks speak for me. Then I imagine I am the finished piece; with people now looking at me, I hear what they’re thinking, see their feelings in their eyes.
A museumgoer and an artist, I think a lot about the symbiosis between looker and maker.
Forget about the hollow, pretentious, inane blather of art-speak. Art is a dialog in itself. There’s nothing to understand.
(Note: My second favorite thing to do in museums and galleries — obviously the first being to look at art — is to watch other people look at art and, as unobtrusively as possible, take photos of them in the act. Their body language says a lot. My featured photo as well as the photo for the main prompt are both from my collection.)
Artist, writer, storyteller, spy. Okay, not a spy…I was just going for the rhythm.
I call myself “an inveterate dabbler.” (And my husband calls me “an invertebrate babbler.”) I just love to create one way or another. My latest passion is telling true stories live, on stage. Because it scares the hell out of me.
As a memoirist, I focus on the undercurrents. Drawing from memory, diaries, notes, letters and photographs, I never ever lie, but I do claim creative license when fleshing out actual events in order to enhance the literary quality, i.e., what I might have been wearing, what might have been on the table, what season it might have been. By virtue of its genre, memoir also adds a patina of introspection and insight that most probably did not exist in real time.