“Listen, I Have Something To Tell You”

The image most conjured of artists and writers is that of a (usually disheveled) lone person at a desk or in a studio day in and day out for hours at a time surrounded by books, papers, art supplies and endless cups of coffee. Writing and painting are solitary endeavors. As a lifelong introvert, I’ve never been sure if those practices simply suited my personality or whether I adapted to the circumstances that were necessary to create. But after emerging from the sometimes tortured dream that is making stuff, I want to leave the solitude and complete the creative process by sharing what I’ve made.

Memento Mori: “Take A Little, Leave A Little”

It would seem on the surface that artists want to share in order to fill some attention void. This can veer into the obnoxious for some. I had a serious poet friend in my youth who would regularly shove a sheaf of papers at anyone within reach demanding, “Read this!”. Sharing has taken on a whole new meaning in the modern digital age, and of course artists and writers want attention for their work, but not for an ego boost. At least not all of us. Amanda Palmer says that as a musician, she wants to be seen, not looked at and notes the distinction. It’s the difference between adoration and connection. I believe process also plays a vital role in this experience.

If someone looks at a painting or reads a poem of mine, I am not looking for praise or compliments (although that is very nice), but something that a viewer or reader might add of their own. Something that says, “Yes! I’ve been to that metaphorical place you write or paint about” (or not). Isn’t communication part of what art is all about? I believe that hidden in every painting or poem are questions begging to be asked. True communication is always best when there is a response or exchange of some sort.

The very process of painting is about communicating with your materials, images, and forms.

If artists and writers are honest however, we will tell you that often we have no idea what we are doing. Most of us rely on a combination of skills, experience and sheer determination to realize a painting or piece of writing. We experiment. We tinker. We “see what happens”. Photographer Sally Mann calls hers a “magpie aesthetic”, scavenging whatever happens to be around to capture with her camera. The creative act is like being an explorer. I go blindly to the vast corners of my imagination and then report back with a tangible record. I want to know if where I’ve been resonates with anyone at all, or whether I’ve only experienced a fever dream on my own. Being left with no observations or reactions is sometimes, to feel unmoored.

But artists thrive on the wisdom of insecurity! (thank you Alan Watts) A more accurate word might be uncertainty. As an explorer, I accept uncertainty as part of the deal, along with a dash of romance. I’m not talking of course, about romance in an erotic sense, or something wrapped up in a Valentine, although there is eroticism in viewing the world from a romantic lens. (Nature is my Valentine).

Both uncertainty and romance seem required to suspend our belief during the creative process until we are convinced of something. I am used to these two states of being. Many of us operate on the fringes of society or convention all our lives, foregoing soul-sucking employment or costly possessions in order to pursue our work. Or perhaps the work teaches us that uncertainty is the only way in. I know that dogged pursuit eventually leads to something. Susan Sontag refers to the the world as an “aesthetic phenomenon”. At my fingertips is a landscape of color, shape, form and movement, without politics, context or agenda. That seems to me the ultimate romantic view. I fell in love with that world view and artists’ interpretation of it at a very young age. It was and remains mysterious to me.

Organized Chaos

Much like the mystery we initially fall in love with in humans. We respond to their being or presence: their look, smell or manner, even though we know little about them. We might even be stopped in our tracks by something that can’t be explained. Paintings can be like that. They act mysteriously on our “nervous system” as Francis Bacon liked to say, before any information or meaning has leaked out. My particular style of working is to obey what I might even call “romantic” impulses and only consider them afterwards. This keeps the uncertainty from slowing down the flow in the studio. Artist William Kentridge believes that one doesn’t have to have a brilliant idea, but a trust in the material in your hands. To trust your impulses as recognizing something that is part of your process.

And what is the need for artists and writers to tell a written or visual “story” in the first place? To share their “impulses”? To some degree it’s built into our DNA as humans to share. We are born to connect; to convey an experience. In presenting my work, I am sharing the experience I had in creating it. Looking at a painting is to have a singular experience as well. Often people who view my paintings relate some very elaborate narrative that they see in the image and wonder if they got it “right”. But of course, there is no right.

Both mundane as well as life-altering experiences invite reflection. Looking at art provides a similar invitation to reflect and ask questions. And there aren’t any wrong ones. To be clear, I am not a believer in “explaining” paintings. The best paintings to my mind retain a bit of ambiguity so that they continue to evolve and change, just as significant experiences in our lives continue to inform and mold us long after they occur. I also don’t consider an audience during the painting process however, in finished paintings, the meaning in my work evolves over time, with contributions from viewers a part of that. Ideally, this is what sharing work with peers can foster.

I have many artist friends who welcome a constructive critique or comment. Emerging from the creative process prompts me to look for shared excitement about where I’ve been (Look what I found! What do you see?). I love to talk about art and making it is my way of starting the conversation.

Photo Credits

Photos by Linda Laino – All Rights Reserved

Guest Author Bio
Linda Laino

Linda Laino is a visual artist and writer who has been making art in one form or another for over 45 years. With an MFA from Virginia Commonwealth University, where she received two years of fellowship awards from the Virginia Museum, Laino was influenced by language from a young age, and moves between painting and writing in search of the connections and the crossover. She has shown work regularly in solo and group exhibitions since 1988, when she was awarded a prize from The American Craft Museum in New York. Her work is included in major collections including the McDonough Museum in Ohio, and Fundación Valparaíso in Spain. In recent years, she has been making art around the world at residencies in New Mexico 2015, France 2016, Spain 2018, and Maine in 2023. In June 2024, she traveled to Greece where she was awarded a grant for a month-long stay to paint on the island of Skopelos. Her poems and prose have been published with distinction in many small presses and anthologies, most recently in “La Presa” out of Guanajuato City. Her poem, Poem at Sixty was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2019. Originally from Philadelphia and Richmond, Virginia, since 2012, she has lived in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico where the color and flavor allow for endless inspiration.

Visit her website: www.lindalaino.com

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