Every once in awhile I make something that I like. That I really like. It’s not because it turned out as I planned or because I know it’s “good” art. (Who the hell knows what good art is anyway?)
I hit a point in the process where I look at it and know that it’s complete and that I did a good job. I made something that I like. It’s hard to describe. And the word “like” might not even be the correct term. I like it…maybe it’s more that I’m content with it – or satisfied – or it fills a need that I didn’t know existed until I saw it right there in front of me. Crafted with my very own hands. Created from within me. A small part of me that is unknown to everyone else and probably almost as obscure for me.
…That elusive quality that eludes description or explanation.
It doesn’t happen often. When it does happen I sometimes find that the folks that look at the work don’t see what I see. And conversely, when people like a work, I often can’t see what they see in it.
When it does happen – that piece of art – I’m sure that if Leonardo, Picasso or the person standing next to me said, “That’s a piece of crap” – it wouldn’t matter to me.
I just wouldn’t care because I know that this thing that I made is exactly what its supposed to be.
The other day when I was down and discouraged, I went into my studio and found a bowl in the uncompleted project pile. I pulled it out and looked at it and started working on it. And put it back down again. Late last night I found it sitting in the middle of my work table and I picked it up again.