Wednesday, January 11, 2006

For a lack of anything better

Dear Sarah,

As you know, I've changed my work schedule so that can I spend more time at home and less at work. The theory here is that a professional artist would devote more time to purposeful making of art and less to the mindless making of money. I've tried this before, of course, and it is difficult. I just want to goof around all day. My avoidence doesn't go away just because my main distraction (work) does.

Last night, at the end of the day two of this experiment, I ran out of stuff to distract myself with and so, for a lack of anything better to do, I figured I would rifle around in my art cupboard, dig up some old reference photos and, yet again, go through the motions of getting ready to do some artwork. Between a case of colored pencils and a notebook, I found The Letter.

You remember The Letter: that typewritten one from Richard Serrin, delivered all the way from Italy. The one I carried around with me all through college like some sort of talisman. The one where he speaks so kindly, thoughtfully and tells me the Truth of what I really need to know about art.

'Dear Grace,
Thank you for your kind letter. If I have emboldened you to make a life in art, I have done my job well. You seem aware of the difficulties in store, if you perservere. They are very real, for so very few have the genius of those masters we admire. Quite rightly, however, you must proceed as if you had that genius, only then will you give yourself totally to your art, and you will never produce anything artificial.'

This letter is a treasure; an inestimable gift in its content. It reminded me that once - not too long ago - someone thought I was worthy of such thoughts and encouragement. It reminded me that someone saw me as worthy, simply by virtue of my aspirations, to be part of the great heritage artists, passed down from teacher to student. It reminded me that once someone who mattered, who knew something, thought I might or that I could make something of my art, of myself.

I shed tears over those pages because I do not feel worthy of them. I feel undeserving of such a great letter - a letter that deserves to be honored, published in books and deemed part of the history of a much greater artist than I.

After a few seconds, I sucked it up. Well, I thought, there's nothing left for me to do but make art. Either that, or burn this letter and all it's well-wishing. Call Serrin a fool for ever believing in me. Either make art or finally get rid of this letter because it has no purpose in my life; it was misgifted - like a fine fur given to street urchin in a southern climate.

I couldn't destroy it, of course. As long as I have the letter, I have hope and trickle of belief in myself. So, last night, I tenderly put the letter away and, for a lack of anything better to do, pulled out paper and pencil and started to draw.

I may still not be worthy, but in the end, doing something is the only proper way to say 'thank you.'

Thank you,

Grace

posted by Grace @ 10:26 AM

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