This gift remains

Little Edie Flag Dance, Grey Gardens, Maysles Brothers' Film 1976

It's the 4th of July and while not patriotic, it is still an atmosphere that I can easily recall: a hot, sticky, Arkansas summer. Picnic tables at the park, Mom's amazing BBQ baked beans, hot dogs, and watching the country club's fireworks from a distance at the picnic table on the side of Mt. Sequoyah, and then later the fireworks at the Northwest Arkansas Mall. Bottle Rockets (and getting hit in the neck with a bottle rocket - thanks, Sean). The smell of burning snakes (not real snakes) as they undulated on the pavement. A feeling of a bit more freedom and extra wildness, walking the hot streets in the neighborhood to the pool with my friend, Annie. Vivid summer memories of childhood. 

But today, my brain has other plans—today it feels like the hashbrowns at the Waffle House (another American institution). Today, I am scattered, smothered, and covered... if you know, you know. This 4th of July I am anxious, angry, and fretful.

Today, the sky is grey and featureless as little Edie from Grey Gardens does her perpetual flag dance, frozen in time on my computer screen. Rain starts to fall on the pane of the tilted open window and I am a bit cold and far from home and the people I love. 

The US government did a bad, bad thing yesterday, and it all feels a bit much. I soothe myself by looking at and crying over Bruegel paintings. Yes, really. It's all right there. The paintings of Bruegel and Bosch were my version of Where's Waldo. Certain paintings become touchstones for grounding. These paintings serve as kinship and provide strength and a knowing. Like holding up a mirror passed through the family for decades—all your people have gazed in the same glass, and they are still there with you now.

The Triumph of Death, oil on panel c. 1562
117 cm × 162 cm (46 in × 63.8 in) Pieter Bruegel the Elder
Museo del Prado, Madrid

In these hard and strange times, I am so grateful to have this type of relationship with art. To be able to slow down and just go into a painting, to know a painting, to feel the support of a painting, to marvel and dream over a painting. To feel seen and known by a painting and to know it in return. It's a rare gift that I credit my parents for making  available to me through the prints on the walls and the books on the shelves in our little home in Arkansas.

No matter where I am or what happens, this gift remains. 

Your exposure is my exploitation

Between fear and joy (that's where we live), works on paper, 2024

Thanks to everyone who read and shared my studio blog last week. That post was my most viewed of the year.

There is clearly a systemic misunderstanding of what artists do, how we live, and what we need and want. There is also a devaluation of our time, skills, and methods. Continuous gatekeeping and obfuscation at every turn is the norm. The results of this continue to land on the artists with wounding effects.

These broken systems dine out on the culture we create, yet we are left holding the tab. Emotionally, physically, and financially, we suffer, while the systems that claim to support us grow and thrive. The very systems that pit us against each other while also breaking us down and filling us with doubt. 

Artists seem to be meant to live speculatively and unmoored. Our faith, resilience, and dedication towards creation are meant to sustain us wholly. This is untenable. 

I am not your creative economy. I am an artist. 

I am not your academy. I am an individual. 

I am not your content creator. I am a worker. 

Your exposure is my exploitation. 

My art is my life, not just one part of it. 

I deserve ground under my feet. 

I deserve to be seen and understood. 

I deserve to live well. 

We all do.

The ship is sailing

but I don't want to stop, work on paper, 2024

Through my love of genealogy, I have learned so much about my family’s place in history and the history of the world. It is meaningful to find the beginnings of one’s strength of character, creativity, moral code, or adventurous spirit embedded in the documents of those who have come before. It is moving to find your place in their words, deeds, and movements across the land and sea. 

Recently, I was looking at ship manifests from 1774. This particular one contained a list of passengers on board Ulysses bound for North Carolina from the Port of Greenock, Scotland. Listed are the passenger names, ages, former place of residence, business, and lastly, the reason for emigrating.

“High Rents and Oppression.”

Listed over and over and over again.

“High Rents and Oppression.”

We all know of the Highland Clearances, and most of us know what happened there and why - but for some reason, to read “High Rents and Oppression” repeatedly in this way hit me a bit harder and differently.

250 years later, the same plight comes crashing down around us, “High Rents and Oppression.”

Workers are struggling to pay their rent. Artists are struggling to pay for their studios.

Buildings that held promise are being left to rot - gap sites of misunderstandings and budget cuts. Yet, there is always money for something new and shining.

And then, the news this week from Creative Scotland regarding The Open Fund for Individuals - the fund that supports artists, writers, producers and other creative practitioners in Scotland would be closing due to the Scottish Government being unable to confirm the funds required.

“High Rents and Oppression.”

I am an artist. I tell stories and express feelings with colour, shape, and form. I watch the world and comment on my place in it. I get to be dramatic, daring, and critical. However, I worry some may think I am being too dramatic or that I am not from here and do not have the right to make such connections. I am from here, and I have returned. I stand rooted in my ancestor’s boots.

And I know that artists are packing up their studios, packing up their lives, and hanging up their brushes and other tools. Their offerings and forms of art are disappearing in front of our eyes.

Ideas float past a heartbroken painter, yet she will not look up and grab them. These ideas will float on and away. The jubilant words you need to hear won’t reach that writer as they push their dreams away. The play, the dance, the song, the film - they continue to fade. They are leaving us now...

A cultural diaspora in the making.

The ship is sailing.