The Resilience in Art
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In the middle of the COVID summer before my junior year, I made a Zoom appointment with an advisor at UW’s art department to talk about adding an Interdisciplinary Visual Arts degree to my academic plan. I was working at a service design studio in San Francisco (well, virtually from my bedroom), and had finally come to terms with my own creativity and had talked to enough designers and artists to realise that you could, in fact, make a living by creating. Let me paint you the picture: I was a recent reject from the design school and I finally felt like I had figured out the whole college thing. I was on top of the world as a newly enrolled art student, and it felt like I finally had some sort of qualification to enter the realm of “creatives”.
Cut to this year’s fall quarter, where an entirely online art education awaited me. While the novelty and glamour of my “art student” title was still there, the experience I had built in my head was a far cry from my introductory, based on Zoom, drawing class. Now, officially two quarters deep into my life as an artist, the home studio haphazardly set up on my floor is, to put it lightly, underwhelming. While I’ve learned an incredible amount about technique, material, composition, and achieving reality in reproduction, I’ve never experienced the magical atmosphere of a studio, and I’ve never attended a real live critique. Besides that, the art I have made feels sheltered and self-focused, well the rest of the world and its inspiration spins on just out of reach behind my front door.
I’m learning this isn’t a personal plight. Artists everywhere, those both deep into their careers and the baby budding ones like me, are struggling to create. The world simply feels too heavy or too stagnant to pull inspiration from. However, artists struggling in modern society isn’t a new theme; in a lot of ways, “surviving” has always been part of the job description. But in a pandemic reality, what does surviving mean? And how does it change the ways we create and share our work?
Apparently, it’s not all doom and gloom, and many are taking this opportunity to push the boundaries of traditional art and the way it is displayed. Right here in King County, artist Paul Nelson built what he calls “Sun Spot” in his front yard. It looks pretty similar to a real estate sign or some sort of small community bulletin. Instead, he’s using it as a micro gallery where he rotates local art on display and in booklets. Currently featured is Seattle artist Alex Harris, whose “practice investigates domestic space and the mundane, with the range of media varying from painting, drawing, video, installation, and sound”. While tiny, Nelson’s Sun Spot has built community in his neighbourhood, and given local artists a low risk opportunity of expression.
While I haven’t yet been contacted by Nelson for a Sun Spot showing, I’ve found myself enjoying this trend of showcasing art on a smaller scale. For me, it’s an Instagram page dedicated to my work — the process, the final result, the emotion behind it. Publishing my art to my measly audience of 66 followers has allowed me to connect with other students, but has also given me a (although somewhat fleeting) feeling of legitimacy. These little digital interactions are reassurance that there is someone on the other side, and even though it seems like it, I’m not just creating for my dining room walls or whatever abyss artwork is falling into these days.
In any case, I am still waiting for the golden, glimmering day I step into the art building. But seeing the ways that artists have adapted, and continue doing so, has put some of the sparkles back on my art student title.
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