Redefining ART

How I am learning to capture artistic expression

A spare moment to myself means I bring out the paints. A certain pinterest board I created months ago has been itching away at the back of my mind and I finally have time to bring the dream to life.

I spread all my material on the table because I knew if it’s not where I can see it, I’ll find some way of talking myself out of it. 

My desk houses a sprawl of paint tubes, dirty cloths, and the Ikea plate that doubles as a paint palette. I don’t like the mess but it’s what gets the job done.

I sit down. Realise I need scissors. Get back up. Sit back down. Realise I need a ruler. Get back up again. 

This happens several times as I walk the five steps from shelf to desk, praying for the day I’d have my own studio and not have to hole everything up inside wardrobes and shelves in my bedroom.

Once everything is in front of me, I sit and start. In doing so, I gradually lose myself in the manual process of making. Not making ‘art’, just making (and if what comes out of it qualifies as ‘art’ then so be it.)

‘The more “pretty” a piece of art I make, the less alive it feels, lying flat and still, it refuses to speak.’ - Sana Rao

I agree with Sana. In fact, the idea that a painting should be pretty gives me the subconscious notion that what I am making is not ‘art’, as that would attach ideas onto it: ‘pretty’, ‘understandable’, ‘recognisable’, ‘good to look at’. 

Of course, that is not the definition of art but rather a popularised, instaworthy-fied version of it. It’s a definition that I am learning to remove from my head because I’m craving for something more than just a pretty landscape edited into a nicely filmed 15-second reel (as satisfying as those are to have on my feed).

Instead, I move waway from picture-perfect landscapes. I stick lemon ends into inky black calligraphy ink. I scratch lime green acrylic paint with the end of a cheap paintbrush. I stamp the sides of a ball of string onto neon pink acrylic paint. The end result may not look the prettiest, but its artistic expression in a way that I am learning is still art. 

When I go to bed that night, I’ll dream of what I will write about these pages, about the process. I will fold those pages and bind them with string. My dream hands are sewing the thread and needle through the pin-pricked holes of the folded paper edge. I imagine this newly weighted mini sketchbook that I’ll have made and I am happy. I am happy that I have made real, expressionistic art. 

(update: I didn’t fold them, they looked better without it)