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Greetings,

 

Welcome to the Cooper studio, Jefferson, Iowa, where I've just finished re-reading the article by Matthew Daub "Making Your Mark" speaking to individual artistic style.

 

The analogy he used is not all that esthetically pleasing to me, but here goes:  he compared artistic originality and personal style to dogs "marking" their territory.  Hunh.

 

Big Dog.  The mental picture of my golden retriever art causing the neighborhood fluffy-white-yapper art to shake in fear --- yeah, I couldn't quite fix that one firmly in place in my imaging process, but can you follow along anyway?

 

Since most of us have seen doggies in action, we know that when the top dog goes in for his nap, there will be an adventurer or two who come in to inspect TopDog's territory and try to leave a mark of their own.  Kind of like copying his work.  So goes life.

 

I try to stay current with other artists at the Art Fair Insiders site, and think this discussion takes place there frequently - but on the flip-flop (the reverse) the growling "I own this patch of lawn" point of view.  "I'm the BIGDOG in this town, quit copying me."  To the point that they want art fair directors to chase out (er - remove from the show) the copy cats.

 

Oh.  Wait.

 

Did I just say "cats" in an article about the TopDog?  What a confused world we live in.  TopDogs.  CopyCats.  My art.  Copied art.  Sheesh.  What's an artist to do?

 

 

We all know that as artists we learn from those who've gone before us.  No sense in reinventing the wheel and all that.  But I also encourage you to remember that no two snowflakes are alike.  Wait:  now we've got snowflakes?  Dogs, cats, snowflakes, artists?  This is way confusing.

 

I think we need to pull out the key phrase from Mr. Daub's article, and consider it mandatory for us to re-read this morning :

 

"Being aware that an artist's work, ideally, should be as unique as the artist's own DNA, encourages us to hone our approach and sharpen our point of view."

 

Isn't that just the politically correct way of telling an artist, or an artist wanna-be, that if their work looks like somebody/everybody else's work that they are losers?  Isn't it saying we need to dig a little deeper, past the thought of this is a popular (common) look and will likely sell well?  That if what we are creating, looks like what some other DNA holder creates, we are probably doing something wrong?

 

I think this is the root problem of the discussion I mentioned frequently happening over at Art Fair Insiders:

 

(1)  copying what's popular, what's in the headlines, what the top dollar winner is doing, really just keeps you from working at your own voice and the potential there in

 

(2)  pacing the fence line and growling/snapping at all those from the above paragraph (1), is futile as well.  and it's just another distraction from the "sharpening our point of view" process.

 

I think the big dog, the top dog, has to have an attitude above and beyond all of that.  BigDog focuses on the art, and the next painting.  The next step, and the next possibility.  Worrying about territory lines is a time-consuming thing, and therefore a losing proposition.

 

Sure, we all want to be BigDog and own the lawn.  I'm thinking the only way to do that, is to create in the style of the individual you are.

 

Thanks for stopping by.

 

Later, Cooper

Greetings,

 

Welcome to the Cooper studio, Jefferson, Iowa.

 

Two things happened recently to bring me to this thought place.

 

1.  An art festival that bills itself as a fine art fair gave 21 artists awards at the fair.  Three, maybe four, would get fine art billing at FASO.  The remaining seventeen or eighteen would either be considered fine craft, or in the case of numerous exhibits, folk art.  Nothing wrong with either of those.  However, with that unbalance of judging, I say a statement has been made.  The vision has been narrowed.

 

2.  An artist friend, who has always been an independent thinker, open to new ideas, and willing to try to understand other people's thoughts is changing.  The free-thinker has taken to labeling groups of people.  Using generalizations.  "If you think this about this subject,  then you belong to this group, and therefore all the rest of your thoughts are just like theirs too"  The liberal is turning into a narrow-minded thinker, able to see only one way.  Again, the vision has been narrowed.

 

It's kind of scary when it happens, isn't it?  My way or the highway.  Whew.  The original purpose, the original thought, the original reason for being, gets lost in a clutter of tunnel visioned thoughts.

 

It can happen in the studio too, you know.

 

Isn't art supposed to be about what the artist has to say?  Our vision?  If we are told what we have to paint/create "to fit in" or "to sell", or to "get an award", or (insert your own whatever) is it still art?  I am beginning to wonder.

 

At the aforementioned art fair, I saw so many exhibits priced cleverly to sell.  Trinkets made inexpensively to coax a twenty-dollar bill out of the back picket  Forget finding something special and committing.  Am I stepping on your toes?  I am sorry.  Yeah, yeah, the economythemortgageblahblahblah.

 

Here's a challenge:  grab a piece of paper and draw 2 lines down to form 3 columns.  (no, it's not a test, I can't draw straight lines either) On one column write fine art, on the second write fine craft, and on the third, write folk art.  Take it to an art fair next weekend.  Thanks to over zealous art fair producers there's one on every corner--but that's a subject for next time.  At each booth quickly decide which column they fit best in.  At the end of your art fair tour, count up and tell how you think we are doing.

 

I get to go first:  I think a whole bunch of exhibitors at art fairs are backing off, narrowing their vision of what they are really capable of, and for a couple of reasons.

 

1.  There is a glut of art fairs out there.  Producers who produce a string of art shows are seeing how much they can get from artists wanting to show their work.  $745 for 100 sq feet of space on a street for two days--really?  The game has become volume, instead of quality.

2.  Patrons are becoming immune to art fairs--there's one every other weekend--it's taking a lot to capture their attention.

3.  Judges reward cleverness instead of solid work.  Are even the judges becoming immune?  Do THEY need in-your-face kind of things to lure them in?

 

I say it's narrowing our vision.  Artists are creating what these pressures are telling us we have to, instead of what we know we should be.

 

At an art fair earlier this summer, at that lovely early morning time on the second day when the artists have arrived and the patrons have not, a group of three of us were conversing.  The guy behind me, a jeweler said "God, I hate jewelry.  We don't need it, and the people that buy it are so vain.  I wish I could show my drawings instead."  I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or pat him on the head and tell him it would all be better soon.  What I didn't tell him, was what I should have:  "Your vision has been narrowed, time to get back to the real".

 

Fine thoughts for a Monday morning, eh?  Now go have a lovely painting day.  

 

 

 Later, Cooper

 

 

 

Greetings,

 

Welcome to the Cooper studio, Jefferson, Iowa, where the morning is a little damp and a lot foggy.  Just back from the morning run, this thought occurred to me:  being a runner is kind of like being an artist.  Let me explain.

 

It's all about niches.  By the way, don't you just love that little word?  Niche.  If you listen to Webster's, then you get nich and it rhymes with rich.  If you listen to HGTV, then you get a neeeesh and it rhymes with sheeesh.  Sheesh!

 

We need a snippet of a story to get this writing going in the right direction.  Running:  I have mentioned before, I am sure, that I try to get a morning run in 3 or 4 times a week.  My normal route involves the Raccoon River Valley Bicycle Trail, which also tangents the local elementary school.  Now Jefferson is one of those kind of communities where the moms drive their little kiddos to school in the morning.  And there seem to be quite a few of them.  Do I need to mention that causes a mini traffic jam?  And if you are in the area on your morning run--whoa.  At every intersection within a five block radius of the school you have a mom carefully stopping for you and hand-motioning you to go through the intersection ahead of her.  And then I motion back:  no, you go.  And then she motions back, no, you go.  See?  That's the way it is.  And then you have the moms backing out of their driveways while still trying to get kids buckled into their seats concurrently while cell phone checking to see if the neighbor kids need a ride also this morning.  It's just too much for a semi-serious runner to deal with.  Instead, I highly recommend the niche.  The Jefferson runner niche is in a questionable place if you are not an early morning person, because you guessed it.  You have to get up and out there while the moms and kiddos are still eating their Cheerios or Fruit Loops.  But once you are in that niche, you can run unimpeded.  You can get there.

 

"And the artist?" you ask.  "That relates how?"  Follow along please:  we all know, or have at least heard about finding our artistic style.  Our artist's voice.  Happy is the day/decade/century (!) when it happens, right?  What happens when you finally get to happy-land and someone tells you it's not a very lucrative style?  That your "find" is the epitome of NOT mainstream art?

 

Consider this:  you could run along in someone else's niche and be impeded in your journey by all kinds of congestion and confusion.  Because someone else's niche is not right for you.  Or you could run along in your niche, albeit not quite mainstream.  You could run steady and unencumbered in the style that helps you move forward, because it's yours.  And you could get THERE.  Wow.  What a concept, eh?

 

Happy painting.

 

Later, Cooper

Greetings,

 

Welcome to the Cooper studio, Jefferson, Iowa, where it is both a stunning and beautiful day.  Ahhhh, spring.  And I even have a spring painting for you here, in a minute.  First we need to talk about selections.  Or assumptions about selections.  Or something like that.

 

After the youngest Cooper had been away at college long enough to get a firm grip on the realities of laundry, we ended up bequeathed with some of his new "go-to-college-towels".  And they were the nicest ones of the bunch, thick and cushy and the epitome of absorbent.  Why did we get them?  He didn't like them because they took too long in the dryer.  Hunh.

 

Yes, you are at an artist's painting blog, and that bit of a story does have relevance.  Like this:  as artists, we are constantly the recipients of well meaning advice.  If we paint landscapes, then someone tells us we should be painting abstracts.  If we paint abstracts, they tell us we should be painting landscapes.  If we paint figures, they tell us we should be painting anything but!  :)

 

We assimilate all that good advice and begin to assume (as in, making an assumption) that we know, without a doubt, what it is that art patrons of the world will want to select, when they are out looking for a painting.  We let our artistic vision take a road trip down to "I've-been-persuaded-land".  Maybe it's just a day trip, and not too much harm done.  But what if it turns out to be a major journey and one you shouldn't have let yourself get talked into?

 

Because in reality, not everybody chooses for the same reason.  Are we better off trying to paint what we assume will please everyone, or painting what's right and then working to connect with the people who see things the way we do?

 

We could say "a rose by any other name is just as sweet" or "one man's trash is another man's treasure" or "beauty is in the eye of the beholder".  We could even say "thick and cushy versus quick through the dryer".

 

It's not a matter of matching your painting to the person; it's a matter of finding the people who match your painting.

 

Thanks for stopping by.

 

Later, Cooper

 

Yup, you're right.  I did promise a spring painting:

 

  Ready For Spring, an acrylic painting on a nice little 12 x 12 inch canvas.  And yes, in my portfolio, for a zoom-able look.

 

Greetings,

 

Welcome to the Cooper studio, Jefferson, Iowa.  Let's talk color today.  After all, it IS one of my favorite subjects.

 

Once in a while (okay, more than once in a while) I get that kind of comment.  You know, they say things like "wow, bright".  I used to be concerned.  Now I understand they probably have a Terry Redlin print hanging over their fireplace.  Dios mio.

 

So, that title, amarillo, rojo, and azul.  Next week I get to spend some time with my favorite Colorado two-year-old.  His mommy and daddy are determinedly teaching him both English and Spanish.  They will be away for a week, so I get to hang out with Arridian. 

 

I think maybe we can spend some time talking color.  He can teach me how to say amarillo--I don't get the r's very well.  And I can tell him about painting with a very primary colored palette-- yellow, red, and blue.

 

In fact, my ultramarine, cad red med, and cad yellow (amarillo!) deep, share palette space with titanium white, violet, and sap green.  But that's the extent of it--those six, so when I say limited palette, I am sincere.

 

I often wonder how people that accept abstracted paintings so readily, think that a tree must be green and all people must be "flesh" colored?  They observe somebody's canvas with paint dribbles or globs smeared all over it, and say "hmm, interesting"--I give a figure nice cad red skin and they say something like, "wow, that person really had a bad sunburn".  Huh?  Sometimes I tell them about the warmth and immediacy of the color red.  How the painting wouldn't do what I wanted it to if the person had "normal" colored skin.  I tell them that when I have cad yellow (amarillo!) on my brush, I feel like I am spreading sunshine around on the canvas.  And that blue works for  people's various attributes just as much as it does for skies and lakes/oceans!  Aaaah, color, don't you just love it?!

 

I think tomorrow could be a very interesting day at the easel.  I'll let you know  :)

 

Later, Cooper

 

Greetings,

 

Welcome to the Cooper studio, Jefferson, Iowa, where I have been thinking about the phrase "cup half full".  I've always linked it with optimism.  I like optimistic.  The state of being optimistic.  And those around me to be a little bit that way as well.

 

I've been working on a painting, and it's gained a title:  Park Bench Siesta.  Post-title-ing, it occurred to me that someone who came across that title on a google search would start thinking "aah, a social statement on the life of the homeless".

 

Nope.  Not this one. 

 

I recently had a fellow artist ask why I didn't paint more "commercial".  Now, granted, he was struggling with English not being his usual language, so I'll give him some leeway.  But since that conversation, I've been thinking about what I paint, and even more to the point, what I look for to paint.  And isn't that the beginning of the definition of artistic vision?  I look for happy.  For people being happy.  I am a fixer--if someone's not happy, then what can I do to help them get that way?  (Ha!  Brings to mind the phone call from Cooper-the-younger about his car last night--certain he would not make it past this latest little bump in his road.  Sorry. Off track, but you get the point, right?)

 

And what is with the world's mindset that for a painting to bear any consideration at all, it has to be a social statement of despair, something ugly, or just downright unpleasant.  Don't other people want to feel good?  Maybe I'm the only one out on that limb?  Wanting it always to be a half full cup?

 

Let me tell you about the painting:  I found my park bench siesta people relaxing on a bench in the little garden/park on the north side of the ArtInstitute building in Chicago.  Because it's fair (!) for artists to assume, I assumed they had just been in to see the Matisse exhibit that was on display.  Can you see the woman's smile as slightly mysterious?  That's because (I am going way out on the limb in assume-land here) she was left a little lackluster by the Matisse exhibit, just like I was!  But she also (just like me!) had the good idea of swinging through the impressionist gallery on the way out.  And spent several minutes (just like I did) in front of Morisot's Woman in the Garden.....  But that's another story, eh?

 

For now, you need to see the painting.  A painting that despite it's title, is a cup half full.  A painting about happy.  A painting about people enjoying life.  Thanks for stopping by.

 

   Park Bench Siesta,  acrylic painting on a nicely sized 12 x 24 inch canvas.  And of course, for a close look, you'll find it in my portfolio.  Just click on the colored letters for the link.

 

Later, Cooper

 

Greetings,

 

Welcome to the Cooper studio, Jefferson, Iowa, where it is a beautiful day, I might add, despite being winter!  Beautiful enough, that I think we should talk about artistic vision.  Or the vision of the artist, whichever way you want to say it.

 

But let's begin at the beginning--it is my job to let you know where this is coming from, right?  I'm fairly sure I've told you about Jefferson, Iowa before.  It's one of those little midwestern towns that's just pretty comfortable in its own skin.  While the city fathers would no doubt like for Jefferson to be called a city, it's really just a town, plain and simple.  About 5,000 people, all pretty laid back in attitude, or so it seems.  No big deal when someone decides to load their pooch into the truck and drive uptown for coffee.

 

Now we're getting to the part about artistic vision.  Mine, specifically.  If someone loads their little yapper dog, or their little puff-ball dog into the front seat of the family auto, it just really doesn't do much for me, artistic-vision speaking.  On the other hand if someone drives the square of downtown Jefferson, with their hound dog riding shotgun, well, that's a different story.  You understand what I mean about hound dog, don't you?  Saggy, baggy eyes.  Big floppy ears.  Drool-slobber.  Slobber-drool.  If it's summer and the passenger side window is open, you know it's all hanging out there.

 

Can any of us help but grin at a sight like that?  I find I tend to mentally catalog images of that sort.  I remember them, but just for the enjoyment of it.  A beautiful landscape, something in the "waterfall falling off the side of a mountain in Colorado" status, goes in the same mental file.  Quite often, beautiful flowers will end up there as well.  It's a file of images I totally enjoy, but don't have to take any further than that.  Just enjoy.

 

As an artist that loves to paint beautiful things, you'd think I'd be right on top of those images with my paint brush, wouldn't you?  Surely each artist amongst us has a built-in attention meter that zings into overdrive when some vision out in the world captures our attention, the kind that makes us frantic if we don't have the sketchbook or camera handy.  The kind of vision that we automatically know will end up on a canvas in our studio someday.

 

Possibly by looking at my portfolio, you will have guessed the integral factor required for a sight out there in the world to trip my attention-meter.  People.  They don't have to be famous, or beautiful.  Fast or slow.  Tall or short.  In fact, I would say I'm not too picky at all.  [Oh wait, don't ask me to paint your NASCAR driver :)]  Is it the challenge?  People know when they look at a painting of other humans, if it's done right.  There's grace and balance there, and what an aha! moment it is when the paint brush finds it.  And what a never ending source of inspiration there is hanging out on the sidewalks of the world!

 

But back to that hound dog riding shotgun that I saw this morning.  I would say dogs don't normally trip my artist-attention-o-meter, but did I mention that this morning's traveler riding shotgun had a "matching" driver?  Pooch and owner look-alikes!  Don't you just love when that happens?   Now that could be a good enough story for a painting....

 

Thanks for stopping by!

 

Later, Cooper