A country bonfire

November 26, 2013

Science fiction writer Ray Bradbury wrote, "Write a thousand words a day and in three years you'll be a writer." Social scientist Malcolm Gladwell calls it "the 10,000 hours rule." American radio host and producer Ira Glass reminds us that it's grit that bridges the gap between ambition and greatness. In the studio, Dad taught me to keep "blanks" stacked in tall, primed piles beside the easel, inviting me to play and to do the work.

For any artist, a few million miles on the road to mastery is going to produce a wipeout (or two)--false starts, fits of panic, excessive noodling, dead-ends, stubbornness, box canyons, distraction attacks, alter ego follies, narcolepsy, bad vibes, too tight, too loose, too precious or too casual. Tear-stained flops are necessary. They're the gift you give yourself when you're willing to fly.

A month ago Dad wrote to tell you that we had begun the act of culling his painting archive. It had only been a year since he'd written to remind you, and to offer suggestions on how to purge. Here's an excerpt from that letter:

"Sit beside a cheery fireplace on a cool October night and feed the flames. Scotch helps. Those flames are hungry for your poorer efforts and, while the loss of them may be at first painful to you, the lick and wither of their demise will be your cathartic event."

Last Saturday, in need of a hotter venue, we loaded our panel van to the skylight, both my stuff and his, and followed a dewy road to a friend's place deep in the country where bonfires are tolerated. With the witness of sympathetic friends, canvas by canvas, we committed offenders to the pyre. Curiously, a dozen or so were pulled at the last minute. Dorothy wandered back and forth, sniffing the wild mushrooms, giving the conflagration a wide berth. At one point she gave an approving paw to a canvas that got to stay in the van. "That has hope," I heard Dad say. We've taken the liberty to put up photos of the event at the top of the current clickback.

For artists willing to feed the flames, there's an exhilarating relief that passes all understanding. After a life, (or even a part of a life) devoted to grit and play, it's what's left that counts. Scotch time.

Sincerely,

Sara

P.S "Quality is never an accident; it is always the result of intelligent effort." (John Ruskin)

Esoterica: We all know that many artists don't demand such rigorous control. Many, encouraged by libertines like my father when he's in his more goofy moods, know that it's in the play itself that true creative joy happens. Nevertheless, those who might strive for superior outcomes need to take an extra step. They need to apply the added value of a discriminating mind. It seems that control is the vital second half of personal creative evolution. It's what Richard Bach was talking about when he said, "A professional is an amateur who didn't quit."