Artists Statement May 2012

 

Susan Sontag wrote in The Pornographic Imagination that an artist was a freelance explorer of spiritual dangers and a broker in madness.

 

I see my role as a painter as one where I explore the psychological spaces of the human conscious that my audience might fear to tread, and the images I create are the trophies of those experiences.  The figures in my work occupy an unreal world in seductive colour that offers sinister undertones of transgression and taboo.  Uncertain narratives imply a moment in time that is unseen.

I draw upon news stories, films and pop culture to reflect back on to society its own darkest demons.  Only those already corrupted will be corruptible.

When you judge another, you do not define them, you define yourself.

Wayne Dyer, Psychologist

MCPS: The artist as prophet and pioneer with reference to Baldwin’s The Creative Process

Similar thoughts echoed in Susan Sontags essay The Pornographic Imagination. This notion of the artist as a shamen or profit: the King’s Fool.

Am I trying to state the obvious about the role of the artist?

THE CREATIVE PROCESS
By James Baldwin from Creative America, Ridge Press, 1962.

Perhaps the primary distinction of the artist is that he must actively cultivate that state which most men, necessarily, must avoid; the state of being alone. That all men are, when the chips are down, alone, is a banality—a banality because it is very frequently stated, but very rarely, on the evidence, believed. Most of us are not compelled to linger with the knowledge of our aloneness, for it is a knowledge that can paralyze all action in this world. There are, forever, swamps to be drained, cities to be created, mines to be exploited, children to be fed. None of these things can be done alone. But the conquest of the physical world is not man’s only duty. He is also enjoined to conquer the great wilderness of himself. The precise role of the artist, then, is to illuminate that darkness, blaze roads through that vast forest, so that we will not, in all our doing, lose sight of its purpose, which is, after all, to make the world a more human dwelling place.

The state of being alone is not meant to bring to mind merely a rustic musing beside some silver lake. The aloneness of which I speak is much more like the aloneness of birth or death. It is like the fearless alone that one sees in the eyes of someone who is suffering, whom we cannot help. Or it is like the aloneness of love, the force and mystery that so many have extolled and so many have cursed, but which no one has ever understood or ever really been able to control. I put the matter this way, not out of any desire to create pity for the artist—God forbid!—but to suggest how nearly, after all, is his state the state of everyone, and in an attempt to make vivid his endeavor. The state of birth, suffering, love, and death are extreme states—extreme, universal, and inescapable. We all know this, but we would rather not know it. The artist is present to correct the delusions to which we fall prey in our attempts to avoid this knowledge.

It is for this reason that all societies have battled with the incorrigible disturber of the peace—the artist. I doubt that future societies will get on with him any better. The entire purpose of society is to create a bulwark against the inner and the outer chaos, in order to make life bearable and to keep the human race alive. And it is absolutely inevitable that when a tradition has been evolved, whatever the tradition is, the people, in general, will suppose it to have existed from before the beginning of time and will be most unwilling and indeed unable to conceive of any changes in it. They do not know how they will live without those traditions that have given them their identity. Their reaction, when it is suggested that they can or that they must, is panic. And we see this panic, I think, everywhere in the world today, from the streets of New Orleans to the grisly battleground of Algeria. And a higher level of consciousness among the people is the only hope we have, now or in the future, of minimizing human damage.

The artist is distinguished from all other responsible actors in society—the politicians, legislators, educators, and scientists—by the fact that he is his own test tube, his own laboratory, working according to very rigorous rules, however unstated these may be, and cannot allow any consideration to supersede his responsibility to reveal all that he can possibly discover concerning the mystery of the human being. Society must accept some things as real; but he must always know that visible reality hides a deeper one, and that

all our action and achievement rest on things unseen. A society must assume that it is stable, but the artist must know, and he must let us know, that there is nothing stable under heaven. One cannot possibly build a school, teach a child, or drive a car without taking some things for granted. The artist cannot and must not take anything for granted, but must drive to the heart of every answer and expose the question the answer hides.

I seem to be making extremely grandiloquent claims for a breed of men and women historically despised while living and acclaimed when safely dead. But, in a way, the belated honor that all societies tender their artists proven the reality of the point I am trying to make. I am really trying to make clear the nature of the artist’s responsibility to his society. The peculiar nature of this responsibility is that he must never cease warring with it, for its sake and for his own. For the truth, in spite of appearances and all our hopes, is that everything is always changing and the measure of our maturity as nations and as men is how well prepared we are to meet these changes, and further, to use them for our health.

Now, anyone who has ever been compelled to think about it—anyone, for example, who has ever been in love—knows that the one face that one can never see is one’s own face. One’s lover—or one’s brother, or one’s enemy—sees the face you wear, and this face can elicit the most extraordinary reactions. We do the things we do and feel what we feel essentially because we must—we are responsible for our actions, but we rarely understand them. It goes without saying, I believe, that if we understood ourselves better, we would damage ourselves less. But the barrier between oneself and one’s knowledge of oneself is high indeed. There are so many things one would rather not know! We become social creatures because we cannot live any other way. But in order to become social, there are a great many other things that we must not become, and we are frightened, all of us, of these forces within us that perpetually menace our precarious security. Yet the forces are there: we cannot will them away. All we can do is learn to live with them. And we cannot leant his unless we are willing to tell the truth about ourselves, and the truth about us is always at variance with what we wish to be. The human effort is to bring these two realities into a relationship resembling reconciliation. The human beings whom we respect the most, after all—and sometimes fear the most—are those who are most deeply involved in this delicate and strenuous effort, for they have the unshakable authority that comes only from having looked on and endured and survived the worst. That nation is healthiest which has the least necessity to distrust or ostracize these people—whom, as I say, honor, once they are gone, because somewhere in our hearts we know that we cannot live without them.

The dangers of being an American artist are not greater than those of being an artist anywhere else in the world, but they are very particular. These dangers are produced by our history. They rest on the fact that in order to conquer this continent, the particular aloneness of which I speak—the aloneness in which one discovers that life is tragic, and therefore unutterably beautiful—could not be permitted. And that this prohibition is typical of all emergent nations will be proved, I have no doubt, in many ways during the next fifty years. This continent now is conquered, but our habits and our fears remain. And, in the same way that to become a social human being one modifies and suppresses

and, ultimately, without great courage, lies to oneself about all one’s interior, uncharted chaos, so have we, as a nation, modified or suppressed and lied about all the darker forces in our history. We know, in the case of the person, that whoever cannot tell himself the truth about his past is trapped in it, is immobilized in the prison of his undiscovered self. This is also true of nations. We know how a person, in such a paralysis, is unable to assess either his weaknesses or his strengths, and how frequently indeed he mistakes the one for the other. And this, I think, we do. We are the strongest nation in the Western world, but this is not for the reasons that we think. It is because we have an opportunity that no other nation has in moving beyond the Old World concepts of race and class and caste, to create, finally, what we must have had in mind when we first began speaking of the New World. But the price of this is a long look backward when we came and an unflinching assessment of the record. For an artist, the record of that journey is most clearly revealed in the personalities of the people the journey produced. Societies never know it, but the war of an artist with his society is a lover’s war, and he does, at his best, what lovers do, which is to reveal the beloved to himself and, with that revelation, to make freedom real.

Susan Sontag on the role of the artist as the adventurer into the extremes of our subconscious

It is well know that when people venture into the far reaches of consciousness, they do so at the peril of their sanity, that is , of their humanity.  But the ‘human scale’ or humanistic standard proper to ordinary life and conduct seems misplaced when applied to art.  It oversimplifies.  If within the last century art conceived as an autonomous activity has come to be invested with an unprecedented stature- the nearest thing to a sacrament human activity acknowledged by a secular society – it is because one of the tasks art has assumed is making forays into and takin cup suppositions on the frontiers of consciousness (often  very dangerous to the artists as a person) and perorating back what’s there.  Being a freelance explorer of spiritual dangers, the artist gains a certain license to behave differently from other people; matching the singularity of his vocation, he may be decked out with a suitably eccentric life style, or he may not.  His job is inventing trophies of his experiences – objects and gestures that fascinate and entrall, not merely (as prescribed by older notions of the artist) edify or entertain.  His principal means of fascinating is to advance one step further in the dialectic of outrage.  He seeks to make his work repulsive, obscure, inaccessible; in short, to give what is, or seems to be, not wanted.  But however fierce may be the outrages the artist perpetrates upon his audience, his credentials and spiritual authority ultimately depend on the audiences’ sense (whether something known or inferred) of the outrages he commits upon himself.  The exemplary modern artist is a broker in madness.

Sontag, Susan. (1969). The Pornographic Imagination. pp. 35-73.  Styles of Radical Will. London: Martin Secker & Warburg Ltd. London. pp. 44-45

Reading: Susan Sontag: Illness as Metaphor and AIDS and Its Metaphors

In Illness as Metaphor Sontag focuses on Cancer and TB, and the metaphors that have been used to describe their afflictions and treatments.

TB was regarded as an affliction of the creatively repressed, and was romanticised.  Cancer, conversely, at time of writing in 1977, was regarded as the shameful affliction of those who chose excessive, or inappropriate life styles: tobacco, alcohol, poor food.  Cancer patients were at the same time “Victims” and perpetrators of their own demise.

The “shame” cancer victims were purported to feel at the time seems out of date today.  In 2012 we have seen many high-profile figures endure cancer and witness them both survive and succumb to the disease.  Through the benefit of reality TV we watched Jade Goody transform from social pariah racist bully into the “heroic” Cancer victim fighting for her life.  Similarly Christopher Hitchens continued to give interviews and public addresses while his voice caved in to the ravages of esophagus Cancer.  We have now all seen at close quarters the randomness and painfulness of Cancer, so when we hear now of some new affliction, there is no longer the judgement of “what did they do to deserve it” but a more a fear of anther roll of the dice will make it my turn.

Recent statistics now indicate that 1 in 3 people born today will develop cancer at some point in their lives.  (Sasieni PD, Shelton J, Ormiston-Smith N, Thomson CS, Silcocks PB What is the lifetime risk of developing cancer?: The effect of adjusting for multiple primaries. Br J Cancer, 2011. 105(3): p. 460-5).  With such high levels of probability, the idea of being able to control or “fight” the disease  has become almost pointless.

 

In her later essay, “AIDS and Its Metaphors”, Sontag discusses themes of plague, invasion and retribution in relation to AIDS.  As with Cholera in the 1600s, public attitudes towards AIDS view it as something foreign, that has been brought in from far off lands.  AIDS is popularly thought of by the West as having started in Africa, possibly with Green Monkeys; Africans conversely argue it is the result of a CIA bio-warfare experiment that has used them as the guinea-pigs.  AIDS is also appropriated by separatist groups who are keen to label it as the afflictions of the sexually perverse (homosexuals) or morally lost (drug addicts), which in turn has a damaging effect as it implies that white heterosexuals are not at risk.

Sontag’s argument is less polemic here.  She makes the not unreasonable point that as long as we continue to allow diseases to be mythologized in any way, we affect how their treatments and cures are researched and administered.

 

Harvard Reference:  Susan Sontag, 2001. Illness as Metaphor and AIDS and Its Metaphors. 1st Edition. Picador.