As we enter the fourth month of the isolation regime in Britain I have been thinking about what it is that I miss most. I was prompted in this by yesterday’s climbing trip, and I wondered if, in my case, how far up the list that would come. Otherwise, I am quite surprised by the extent to which my needs continue to be met, despite the exceptional circumstances–for which I’m very grateful. Nobody could describe my situation as one of “hardship”, unlike a large number of other people for whom their current position is dire.
As I mused over this question I was struck by the realisation that art is actually quite a sociable activity. A lot of people probably imagine artists as essentially solitary figures, wrestling with their imaginations in the privacy of a studio. In fact it isn’t quite like that in several respects.
First of all, of course, I haven’t been able to get to a gallery since the pandemic hit us. Although gallery viewing is often a solitary activity, there is a stimulating buzz about the occasion. What is more, there is a palpable sense of sharing in a collective experience of evaluating and enjoying (or not as the case may be!) the work on display. As an artist, one’s work is rarely created without some reference to common standards, and that sense of participation in a common culture is fed to a significant extent by galleries.
This is particularly the case, of course, in relation to the showing of one’s own work. How the public respond to art is a vital aspect of being an artist. I was expecting to enter pieces for a national exhibition recently, and this has now been cancelled. Also, I had lined up a small number of venues to which I intended to make an approach, but all of that has had to be suspended for the duration of the pandemic. There is an undeniable feeling of going nowhere.
Then, of course, there is the important element of interaction with one’s colleagues. I take part in a group called Unit 9, which cooperates to run a small independent gallery in the South Square Centre in Bradford. We meet normally every month for food and conversation, and this is a very encouraging experience. It is still thoroughly unclear when we might be permitted to resume these meetings. I do have occasional email and ‘phone contract with colleagues, but it isn’t the same as sharing a glass of wine together. We all need that basic “I’m OK: you’re OK” exchange.
In addition, I hadn’t appreciated until I began to think about it just what an interesting part is played in the life of artists by regular trips to buy materials. There is invariably that discovery of something new that you have never tried before, and a resulting conversation with the shop owner. The proprietors of these places are typically pretty knowledgeable about the stuff they sell, and I am likely to come away from any such visit not only with a fresh supply of pastel paper but having actually learned something.
Finally, it has been quite a revelation to me how much I had come to value the regular life-drawing classes I have been attending. The tutors are posting exercises on-line and I have been keeping up with these, and having an email exchange about the results. It is far from being the equivalent of the weekly face-to-face sessions with a group of other enthusiasts, and the opportunity to actually engage with the task of drawing a live model. It is a toss-up as to whether I have regretted more the loss of climbing ore the loss of life-drawing.
Popular images of the artist might well see us as somewhat narcissistic solitaries taken up with our own creativity, and perhaps even grateful to be left to get on with it. That is far from being he case, however, and in actual fact we are quite heavily dependent upon social contact.