Magical Moments

 There is a magic I do not understand. I envy it, but do not understand it.

I have been reading To The Hilt, by Dick Francis (New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1996.) As usual with Francis, the plotline features thoroughbred racing, horses, jockeys and such. Which is befitting for an author who, Wikipedia tells us: "after serving in the RAF, became a full-time jump-jockey, winning over 350 races and becoming champion jockey of the British National Hunt." But in this book, racing is eclipsed by artistry. Painting to be specific.

The protagonist is Alexander Kinloch, the sort of ne'er do well son of a prominent local family. But rather than swain about the countryside as is normal for the younger sons of minor gentry, Alex has taken up residence in a rough outbuilding where he earns a respectable living as an artist. His "money stream" comes from paintings of golfers and golf courses that he markets quite profitably to country clubs in England and the States.

However, he also works quite seriously in portraiture. And Francis devotes an equally serious amount of time describing Alex's work on one particular portrait. I do recommend the novel to you. It is a nice mystery. However, I won't spoil it for you with any discussion of the plot as the magic is in the description of Alex's work on the portrait. I can find no evidence that Francis ever dabbled in painting himself, however several sources credit his wife, Mary Margaret Brenchley, as his primary researcher. If that was her role for this work, she did an incredible job.

We following Alex's work on the through the preparation of the canvas, with gesso, and multiple layers of background color - acrylic, not oil which takes too long to dry - through multiple layers of glazes, preparatory sketches, and finally scratching through the layers of paint and glaze to reveal in the lower layers an effect that reveals the various - gradually aging - faces of the subject. To which the object of the portrait eventually responds "you have made me immortal."

It's not that I am unfamiliar with mysteries that foreground painting. I am currently reading The Bellotto Connection, the 29th book in Estelle Ryan's, entertaining and informative Genevieve Lenard series which features a young woman "on the spectrum" whose special talent is discerning truth, or the lack thereof, from peoples nonverbal cues. In each novel the caper centers around the works of a particular artist. [Yeah, right? 29 different artists some of whom I must admit I'd never heard.] 

Anyhow, in those novels the paintings are often discussed (by the secondary protagonist, a reformed art thief) in detail. But those explanations tend to focus on what is on the canvas - clues and indications of how the images might aid in catching the bad guys. How the artist came to create the images is only a minor consideration.

So I was enthralled with Francis's intricate and thorough description of how Alex came to create his images. Yet I must admit to having also been somewhat chagrined. It has taken me a great deal of time and introspection to assert that my images are "art."

Not so much, the description of Alex's processes would argue. He mixes and blends hues and textures to achieve his desired result. I am restricted to paper and the predetermined colors of my - admitted extensive - collection of markers.

So, I came away from Francis's novel feeling something like a "pretender" wasting hours on images that have no purpose.

But then my natural optimism bubbled to the surface and I remembered what I used to tell my students when they were wrestling with a creative assignment. I asserted that unless they intended to "go pro," and earn their living with their art, they should never compare their own efforts to the current GOATs, or those of history. The Greatest of All Times were not only exceptionally talented, they had, most often, invested years of training at the feet of equally exceptional practitioners to learn their craft.

That was not the objective of the assignments I gave them. Rather, I wanted them to explore what in the creative process expressed their feelings, brought what was inside out, and most importantly made them feel good, made them happy.

So I decided to listen to myself and remember that what is important isn't what the image shows, what it looks like on the page. Rather the value of the creative process is what you put into the exercise. The value for those of us who live, largely, outside the business of selling art, is in what we invest in the creation of our art, and what, in return, it gives to us.