Why is it always so much harder to write about my own work than to look over and ask my husband? He invariably comes up with a pertinent and delightfully useful list of buzzwords, of things that, yes, it turns out, are absolutely on my mind, and have been for awhile. But does that mean that's what my practice is "about," now?
Artist statements seem inherently vague. I asked a friend of mine to look over my first draft, and he asked me to tell him a bit about the prompt, and the intended audience. My answers: "a general statement about my art practice" and "everyone and their mother." From my not-at-all extensive research, it seems that an artist statement is supposed to answer the WHAT, the HOW, and the WHY, and that's what I've been going on.
But what makes those questions at all answerable? The further out I am from completing a piece, the more likely I am to understand what was going through my head at the time. Looking back at old statements, I tend to cringe. How wrong I was, how arrogant to imagine that the making process was going to be cathartic and conclusive, that I'd be capable of an aloof remove after it was all over. I imagine that an artist statement is also meant to be a proclamation of what you think you might have just done, except that proclamations are proud, finite affairs. And I don't think mine will ever be.
I feel like the real question is whether you would like me to write about my work confidently, or accurately. I don't mean to imply that confidence and accuracy are mutually exclusive, but they do require a bit of perspective and time, which will always be in short supply.
Here's an example of what I mean: It's been less than a year since my thesis exhibition, and already I am certain that my thesis paper was wrong, that what I intended and what I created were only tenuously connected. It turns out that my research didn't culminate in anything, and in fact just led to more questions.
A month out, I was already mulling over some unexpected feedback. During a critique, one of my professors said something like "clearly, you enjoy being alone." And a viewer who had come through said something about how it looked "funerary." Funerary. I remembered hearing once that the first response to feedback, positive or negative, should be to ask yourself if it's true. It's been over 8 months since that word "funerary" was ascribed to my installation, and only in the past two months have I started realizing just how true that off-handed comment was. And isn't it bizarre to realize that even now, I don't know whether or not I like to be alone?
Looking back at old work means I understand it better than I ever could have at the time. I once made a series of vessels that were precariously balanced on tiny feet. I considered it a technical exercise. These were made during (what turned out to be) the sputtering end of a relationship, and only after the breakup did I realize I had been trying desperately to keep something upright that was doomed to topple.**
Reflecting on a body of work after the fact tells you so much more. But reflecting on a body of work after the fact also means I am adding to my understanding of that body of work with the introspection that could only have been developed through the luxury of time. So maybe I'll just have to be content, maybe even soothed, by the prospect of never having an artist statement that is fully confident, or fully accurate.
Meanwhile, if you're interested, just ask. I mean, I'll probably have no clue what I'm doing right now, but I'll have loads of insight into whatever I was doing five years ago...
AND! If you're an artist in need of a statement THIS VERY MINUTE, try this lovely statement generator. You won't be disappointed.
**Sidenote: I did not know it was possible to give yourself an "Aha" moment, but there you have it.