The artist. A solitary genius. A creator of beauty so sacred that we can’t help but love and fear at the same time.
“He’s a true artist,” we find ourselves saying, and it’s these words put together that conjure up the vision of someone whose inexorable destiny was to create, even at the expense of having to endure a lifetime of humility and frustration and social alienation.
The true artist is often misunderstood. He’s utterly and inconsolably alone with his art. And it is that art, that we all revere, that we’d think of as a bridge, that art is actually a wall. The artist hides behind this wall, refusing to face reality.
But times are changing. The artist has little choice in the matter: he either dies an artist or lives long enough to see himself become a creative entrepreneur.
“From around the age of six, I had the habit of sketching from life. I became an artist, and from fifty on began producing works that won some reputation, but nothing I did before the age of seventy was worthy of attention. At seventy-three, I began to grasp the structures of birds and beasts, insects and fish, and of the way plants grow. If I go on trying, I will surely understand them still better by the time I am eighty-six, so that by ninety I will have penetrated to their essential nature. At one hundred, I may well have a positively divine understanding of them, while at one hundred and thirty, forty, or more I will have reached the stage where every dot and every stroke I paint will be alive. May Heaven, that grants long life, give me the chance to prove that this is no lie.”
Katsushika Hokusai (c. October 31, 1760 – May 10, 1849) was a Japanese artist, ukiyo-e painter, and printmaker of the Edo period.
Born in Edo (modern day Tokyo), Hokusai is best known as author of the woodblock print series Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji, which includes the iconic print, The Great Wave off Kanagawa.
One of the most unique artists of the Russian avant-garde, who excelled as a painter, graphic artist, theatrical set designer, textile designer, teacher, and art theorist, Lyubov Sergeyevna Popova, born into a wealthy and highly cultured family, grew up with a strong interest in art, especially Italian Renaissance painting. At eleven years old she began formal art lessons at home. She spent the remainder of her short life (she died at the age of 35 from scarlet fever) assimilating different styles from her mentors and teachers.
Apparently, there’s a clear link between memory and imagination. The better memory you have, the more imaginative you are as a person.
All art is born out of chaos. It is a person’s way to create order out of said chaos. It is a million different thoughts and ideas and feelings and memories stringed together to form something that wasn’t there before.
The muse is born out of this chaos… out of a plethora of experiences. Too much knowledge for one person to handle. Your hard drive must be full.
That is what must happen in order for you to create.
All art is born out of chaos. The never ending battle between what we know and what he have yet to know, about what we feel and what we would like not to feel, about what we have and what we wish we had, about who we are and who we desire to be.
“I do as I can.” – inscription on the frame of Man in the Red Turban
As one of the early innovators of what became known as Early Netherlandish painting, and one of the most significant representatives of Early Northern Renaissance art, Jan van Eyck was already a master painter with assistants by the age of 32.