PAINTING OR WRITING? EARLY MORNING MUSINGS
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~ Island Crone by Liz Maxwell Forbes
The Jazz Players
I know an artist who regrets each piece of art he sells. Years ago, when he belonged to a Chemainus Artist Group and was displaying his work, he sold his ‘Jazz Players’ to a woman from Calgary. Letting that painting go, was painful. He painted another, slightly different and it still hangs in our living room.
Yes. The artist is my partner, Grant.
Then there was the painting of the well loved Chemainus hermit, Charlie Abbott, shown walking along the railway tracks with the iconic Chemainus theatre in the background. Sold also to a woman from Alberta. Also greatly missed.
And his Arizona paintings, thirty- five small studies in oil of the churches, shrines and ancient symbols of the desert done over a winter in Arizona. We had an art show at the old Hummingbird Café in Chemainus when we returned, slapped a high price on them to discourage sales, which didn’t work, as he bid a sad farewell to some of his favourites, including his “Hoochie Coochie Girls.” He still talks about that one.
I know how that feels as I once wanted to be an artist. I studied at the local college, painted in oil because I loved the smell and painted trees, because I loved trees. There was one painting, a big one, of my eight-year-old stepdaughter Sue, sitting against the trunk of an old fir on the bank of the river. I captured her perfectly and had thought of giving it to her.
But an acquaintance saw the painting and wanted to buy it. I was flattered. However, she had no money and offered to do a trade, a hand-woven shawl from Guatemala in exchange for my painting. I reluctantly agreed.
A couple of years later, she asked for her shawl back in return for the painting. I said no. I was annoyed that she didn’t value my painting more than her shawl. I was annoyed that I let myself be manipulated and I’ve regretted that decision ever since for shortly after, the woman’s house burned down with my painting inside. (She had already moved out, as the house was condemned.)
I still have the shawl, but I never wear it. 
There’s a moral here, but I have no idea what it is.
All I know, is that painting and writing are creative art forms, both arising from somewhere deep within. I have lost myself in both pursuits, reaching that altered state where time has no meaning and the art is flowing, an artist high if there is such a thing. It’s a wonderful state of being.
However, I find writing to be simpler than painting. I can print copies of my writing on a sheet of paper or as a book and still have my original. And delete is quicker than painting over. (Painters can print giclees but it’s more involved.)
The difference between painting and writing for me as a memoir writer, is that once my writing is finished, it no longer belongs to me, it belongs to the reader who hears my words filtered through their own experiences. Even I, upon reading one of my books years after I write them, am not the same person; I have separated myself from the stories. I hear them differently; they are no longer mine.
Paintings, although infused with the artists emotions, feel more static. They capture a memory that is frozen in time and place. Maybe that is why many artists have difficulty selling their work. They’ll never be that person in that time again.
Writing and painting, both laying bare our innermost feelings, capturing fleeting moments, are we doing it for ourselves or for an audience?
And does it really matter?
In the end are these just idle early morning musings because my cat’s insisting that I wake up and I’m pretending I ‘m still asleep?
13 thoughts on “PAINTING OR WRITING? EARLY MORNING MUSINGS”
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Interesting insights into both creative acts.
I make art, and give it away to anyone who wants it. Partly because I don’t want to bother about framing, pricing, etc. And partly because I don’t want to feel I have to compete with anyone – other than myself.
In the past I have published my writing in places from local litmags, to international literary journals and anthologies, and through a mainstream publisher. Not much of my own work is ‘for mine eyes only’. I am not much interested in introspection – afraid of what I might find, you might say! But I have had to learn that looking at my published work later, I often see how it reflected both my interests and skill levels at the time but not necessarily those in play now.
As humans, we’re meant to grow, learn and change. Writing and painting are a great way to keep doing all three.
Lois
https://lpstillwriting.blogspot.com
Thank you Lois. Strange i hadn’t thought of writing and paintings as a way to grow, learn and change. Of course!…i must be slow on getting it!
best Liz
Well Liz, you’ve outdone yourself on this one. Talk about resonance! I, and I’m sure many others, have had these same inner tug-of-wars over letting go of things holding emotional attachment. You have captured the reluctance and regret perfectly. I still mourn the loss of paintings and miniatures I created and sold years ago. If I could, I would buy them back. As you so perfectly worded it, “they capture a memory”. Those that I kept warm my soul every time I look at them; especially the little wooden houses whose shingles are weathered to silver grey and windows are missing panes. They look abandoned now but I once knew the imaginary little people that occupied them.
The sales I don’t regret are of crafts I made to sell. Selling was in mind with the first brush stroke, or shaping of a wooden part. I didn’t imagine the lives of the occupants, or pour my heart into painting something I remembered as a child. Sort of like a farmer not naming the animals that are destined for market.
And yet I think the truly great artists did just that. Poured their heart and soul into a work they knew would one day belong to someone else. It brings me to tears.
Ah Sylvia, a thoughtful and warm reply…and I’m caught up in the naming your farm animals..I named my chickens, but we never ate them, so that was okay.
thanks for replying. Liz
Yes, you have done it again! I don’t write or paint but I think I understand what you are saying. All I do is try to repair and maintain what we have kept all these years including my body.
Dave
Dave your love of cars is art, and repairing your house is art…life is art…
thanks for responding, Liz
I deeply resonate with your thoughts of rereading work that has been released and are from a different time.
‘ I am not the same person; I have separated myself from the stories. I hear them differently; they are no longer mine.’
An analogy comes to mind. For about a month during my walk along the river bank I have met a garter snake on the path several times. It is very large for a garter and very pregnant. At least it was as I haven’t seen her for several weeks. I was fascinated to earn that garters unlike other snakes birth live snakes which are completely independent and slither off to live their lives. I have contemplated this amazing fact and also think about our creative pursuits in the same vein. We gestate, create, release and then they continue to live their own lives. And we continue to grow, shed our skin, transform; all so very fascinating this life is it not.
Thanks for this intriguing post. These ideas are very stimulating, despite what your cat has to say about it. And I love Grants paintings.
Joan! i love your snake analogy, I like snakes so it works for me…and you are so right, our words in books/memoirs do slither off and take our readers off on their own journey. I’m waiting for Cheri to send me your latest poetry book. love to you, Liz
I always enjoy your stories
Thanks Carol! I’m sure Sue remembers that painting, I know Rob does. And happy that you follow my blog…hugs
Dear Liz
Your musings also lead to my musings. My daughter is a visual artist. I am aware of some of her regrets regarding dearly departed pieces.
I’m of the word. Often times I turn my back in finished works. Dusting off my hands and squinting either into the future or squatting to closely examine something at my feet.
Thank you for igniting some of my sparks. Lou
Love the blog, Liz. I made art because I had to, it was a fundamental part of me. I was unhappy until I realized that and made it an important part of my life. But I was glad to sell my work as we needed the money and we had no room to keep it all. I did have favourites that I remember, would love to see some of them again to see if they were really any good. But I often wished the urge would leave me alone so my only interest would be to take up the art of baking, child raising and diaper changes. Having this inner push to be left alone to create when one has a large family was not always conducive to harmony with one’s self and one’s loved ones. It made for an interesting life though.
This blog of yours is my favourite one so far!❤️ I don’t paint or write but can appreciate what you are saying. I wonder what percentage of artists have seller’s remorse? At least Grant can view his beautiful Arizona painting of pots when he comes to our house!
As a writer you can reread your works anytime and keep your memories alive. The bonus is we lucky readers get joy from them as well!