Art Archives - A Geography of Reading

Why I No Longer Make Visual Art (A Love Letter to Ursula von Rydingsvard)

August 4, 2018 by Isla McKetta, MFA Leave a Comment

I’d already given up on being a writer when I entered the University of Washington as an undergrad. There was something about deconstructing a text (which is all I thought English majors could do) that made me worry I’d learn to hate reading (the one thing that sustained me always) forever. But I was still a maker. And I needed to put that energy somewhere, so I became a sculpture major. I fucking loved it. Until I stopped.

Asking the Important Questions

I don’t think about drawing, painting, and sculpting much these days, but while wandering the Seattle Art Fair yesterday my artist husband gently nudged open the wound I didn’t want to acknowledge was there. It started with him mentioning that I never draw anymore, talking about how much he liked my drawing, then hinting that some people make work for the very sake of making (a revolutionary concept amidst what felt like the den of art as commerce), and as I shared with him how much I loved just the process of playing with materials, I could feel my hands making the gestures I used to make when sculpting things from clay. I showed him the part of his hip that I had shaped over and over again in object after object and we talked about how much I like textures and which ones.

Why I Stopped

Eventually we got around to talking about what made me stop. See I never cared about the end result. I could shape clay and plaster all day long. I could run a brush or my hands through thick, goopy paint. I could build furnaces and melt metal. I could do anything except finish a project. Because I didn’t care about finishing a project. I cared about the process of making it and the more I worked with the materials, the more I wanted to stay inside that world forever.

This is the photo I post of myself when I want to impress people. Because it is one of the times in my life I was most impressed with myself.

I organized other artists as the “cupola captain” as we melted iron in 100+ degree weather, and one of them got burned with molten metal because I wasn’t good enough, but it was okay because none of us knew what we were doing and we loved it. I gave constructive feedback and thrived off of the ideas and creative energy of those around me.

But we got to the end of the semester and I had no work to present. I had melted it all back down. And my professor suggested I go back up on the hill and try painting for a while. Which I understood, but which also broke my heart. So when scheduling art classes got hard the next quarter (and the university gently suggested I had more than enough credits to graduate already) I switched back to the sociology and political science degrees I’d nearly completed and got ‘er done.

I never made sculpture again.

The First Time I Quit

This wasn’t the first time my love for visual art had been thwarted. In the eighth grade I’d made a scratchboard picture of a KKK rally that was really good. A fellow student pulled it down off the board and tore it up. In the ensuing school meetings, he stressed that he’d been offended by the work (understandable) but (as much as I believe good art has every right to offend) offense had never been my point. I thought the image of white-clad men around a huge bonfire in the dark was beautiful. I knew the KKK was abhorrent and I never intended to celebrate them, but by making the work I felt like I was coming to understand something about humanity that I could not explain. I didn’t have the words then to explain any of my artistic intentions either or the ways art can and should be myriad, but I could walk away. And I did. In high school I tried art again and made some work that was meaningful to me, but nothing that pushed me (or anyone else for that matter).

About Ursula von Rydingsvard

One of the first things we saw at the Seattle Art Fair that I really connected with was a sculpture by Ursula von Rydingsvard. Better yet, Galerie Lelong also had some of her drawings—charcoal works on paper that she’d woven maroon textiles through and sewn roughly with black thread. I’ve seen (and loved) Ursula’s pieces all over the US, but this work on paper was new to me and spoke to a project that I’d been working on when my grandmother died so many years ago.

I’d read that some number of thousands of people had died in Africa from a preventable disease and I wanted to know what that many lives felt like in my body, so I made a painting and crisscrossed it with monofilament onto which I began tying French knots in red string. Because I lied earlier—I do still think about drawing, painting, and sculpting, and this was the first thing that had compelled me back to work. Each time I pierced the canvas to start a new knot it felt violent (and caused me physical pain because I’m not always careful about how I work). I never finished the piece (I’d rushed the underlying painting and it was bad) but I did feel what I’d needed to feel.

Through all the times my husband and I wandered in and out of the booths in the fair, he had been trying to tell me that more artists than I knew (if they could admit it) were really making their work for that feeling they had while creating. And that Ursula was unabashed in celebrating and focusing on her love for the materials.

When he said that, I felt the kind of opening in my body that you should always pay attention to—weepy grateful and like my limbs were limbering to work again.

(This is how much I love Ursula… I stalk her sculptures wherever I go.)

Will I Ever be a Famous Sculptor?

Unlikely. I love writing and I’ve gone far enough down this path of specialization that my visual art muscles are desperately rusty. I might polish them off again someday, but right now I’m lucky to have a few hours a week to work creatively. Still I can see now how important visual art is to my creative self and that I’ve been missing it. I never really stopped making (because I use that same generative energy in writing, gardening, baking, and making and raising a child), but I better understand the ache I’ve felt in the early mornings when I try to capture the shape of my son’s cheek in crayon on newsprint before he moves… again.

And though I’ll forever be 30 credits short of a degree in sculpture, the ways I learned to think about form, negative space, and the importance of the marks makers leave on their work inform everything I create for myself and for others. I’ve also learned to be myriad and expressive, to be comfortable provoking (at least sometimes).

I can’t promise that I won’t stop making visual art again. But I can say that I won’t be so quick to forget its importance to the writing I do and the person I am. Thank you, Ursula, for being you, and Clayton, for keeping art in my life and yours.

If art is important to your process, I recommend visiting the Seattle Art Fair this weekend. There’s a lot of commerce, a lot of pretense, and also a lot of art. You might just find what you need, too.

Living and Sustaining a Creative Life by Sharon Louden

January 25, 2014 by Isla McKetta, MFA 4 Comments

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be a writer and how I can do this thing that feeds my soul and still feed myself and my family. I was thrilled to achieve one of the markers of success as a writer this past year, but it hasn’t made “being a writer” easier. So when I saw Living and Sustaining a Creative Life by Sharon Louden, I knew I had to read this book.

Living and Sustaining a Creative Life is a collection of 40 essays by visual artists about how they are making art and life work together, and it should be required reading in any MFA program for artists of any kind. Here are a few things that really connected with me.

What does Success Look Like?

“I remember the first time someone told me that many artists with apparently thriving careers and gallery representation still had day jobs. It was the first of a very long series of realizations that the art world is at least 50% smoke and mirrors. At the time I felt an almost personal betrayal at the realization that artists I had already perceived as incredibly, unattainably successful still had to find another way to pay the bills.” – Jennifer Dalton

I loved this quote because I could feel the anger and disappointment in it. We all want to succeed at what we love in life. But I don’t think most of us know what that means until we’ve already “succeeded” which can make it hard to help others get past the goal line. In the case of writers, I feel like we’re pushing to get published in a magazine and then the next goal is the first book.

On the outside, my writing career looks very successful right now. I’m publishing two books this year, Polska, 1994 and Clear Out the Static in Your Attic: A Writer’s Guide to Turning Artifacts into Art. If I was an established writer, I think that would still be cause for celebration. As a newbie, I’m ecstatic. But it doesn’t mean I can quit my day job, nor can I retire to the beach and write full time and that leaves me feeling a little disappointed. I’m sure some part of me knew I wouldn’t retire off my first book (or my 20th), but I was so excited to get past that goal line that I thought everything would be magical fairy princess unicorn land afterwards.

I’ve been wonder where my skewed vision of success comes from. I think part of it is that it’s gauche to complain when you’ve gotten the thing that you and so many people have been striving for. In that spirit, I’m doing my best to enjoy every round of edits and compiling databases and checking contracts. But I am aware, too, that by not talking about that process, I’m helping to hide how much work takes place after you get the “we’d love to publish your book” gold star.

Another part is that it’s easier to shoot for a dream than a reality. To be perfectly honest, friends have told me some of the work that goes into publishing, but I just stared at them and concentrated on the “yes, but you’ve gotten what I dream of” look in my eyes while covering my ears to the reality. I think I could only process one step at a time. If denial about the amount of work that goes in after the writing is part of what got me to this step, then I suppose I have to embrace the denial because I am happy to be here. And even knowing now that the process is a lot more time-consuming than I could have imagined, I still want to write.

It does all leave me a little shy about what happens next in the land beyond the goal posts, but I will report on it here. I have no idea if my experience is universal, but I am happy to share it in case it can help writers in the way reading Living and Sustaining a Creative Life did for me.

Non-creative Work

“These tasks also include things like packaging artworks for shipping, preparing canvases and panels for painting, writing press releases and artist’s statements, keeping records for tax purposes, and vacuuming dog hair off the rug and furniture before it has a chance to migrate to the surface of my works in progress.” – Laurie Hogan

Obviously some of the tasks visual artists have to do are different from writers. Some of the things I find I have to do to maintain a creative life are: gathering tax info, cleaning my office, maintaining my computer, social media, reorganizing my drafts and my bookshelf, editing, more editing, even more editing, compiling lists of people who might be interested in my book, writing a glossary and translation notes, research.

There is a lot of work that I do which isn’t typing my next book. I try to maintain what Laurie Hogan describes as a “conscious effort towards efficiency” and use each task as a way to learn about myself and my process. I’m surprised sometimes at the ways those little things are an important part of the process and can be nurturing if I let them. For example, as I wrote a glossary for Polska, 1994, I remembered part of what had made me excited to write the book in the first place which is information I’ll share later in an interview. Vacuuming is time away from words when I can let creativity germinate. Social media is a chance to find new inspiration. Even these book reviews are part of that process and as I find a way to communicate with you what I have learned from a book, taking initial impressions and forming them into complete thoughts, I’m teaching myself too.

Creative Community

The way I have found to balance art/life is to try to maintain an equilibrium between social space and solitary space. I need a lot of solitary space both to work and to just ‘be.'” – Julie Langsam

Artists need each other. Sometimes to feel sane, sometimes for honest feedback in a world that doesn’t yet understand the boundaries you’re trying to break. But the more I’ve worked on my books, the less time I have to spend with my friends and that hurts sometimes.

I’ve been worried lately that I’ve withdrawn so far into the work that when I’m ready to come back out, there will be no one to play with. Luckily I have fabulously interesting friends with full lives. By being forced to retreat just from the sheer volume of things I have to do, I am learning that sometimes when I don’t hear from those wonderful people, it’s because they are this busy (or even busier). I miss them when they retreat and I miss them now, but I am grateful for a community that understands.

Partners and Families

“Because we shared everything, we enriched one another’s education.” – Maggie Michael

I feel amazingly blessed to share my life with a creative man. My husband is a visual artist and got his BFA in painting and photography before I could even admit that I wanted to be a writer. Unfortunately for him, when he graduated, neither one of us knew enough to know that the likelihood of him getting to be just an artist was slim. I pushed and prodded and I think a lot of the fun of the art went away for him. We’re in a place now where he’s starting to explore that again, but I wish I could have been as good of a creative partner to him when he graduated as he was to me when I did.

But I am grateful to share my life with someone who values aesthetics as much as I do and who can talk about art movements and big ideas. I don’t expect him to care about epistrophe, but the way he looks at the world enriches my thinking every day. And sometimes, when I’m on deadline, he takes over the cooking for weeks at a time (and does a better job at it then we do together).

Parenthood

“Many people seem to give us extra credit because we involve our child in our life as artists.” – Dan Steinhilber

One thing I have been very concerned about in choosing a creative life is how to support kids both emotionally and financially and still finding time to write. I’ve been very impressed by my writer friends who’ve had children and continue to write. Some say it teaches you efficiency. I think if I get any more efficient I might just crack, but I’m willing to try.

On the financial front, we’ll figure something out when the time comes, but I was very heartened to read Julie Blackmon’s essay and how she handles parenthood. She says, ” I give myself permission to be a really bad mother for a few days” and the way she describes chips for dinner and other insanity makes me realize that it’s a vacation for the kids too. We all need to let our hair down sometimes.

Living

“Life has to be nourished first. Creativity follows sustenance.” – Justin Quinn

Today I will let my hair down. I’ve turned in final edits on two books in the last month. I’ve written that glossary and those translation notes. I’m halfway done compiling a marketing list. I’m way behind on organizing a panel for AWP, and I had to ask for an extension on a magazine writing project I care very deeply about. But it’s time to recharge so I’m off to Port Townsend for the day with my husband and his camera.

I realize I’ve told you very little about Living and Sustaining a Creative Life and rather focused on how I live and sustain mine. It’s an essential book, and I hope you’ll read it when you are feeling the pressure of deadlines or your day job or just wishing your friends could come out and discuss what it feels like to lead a creative life.

We learn from each other I’d love to hear more about how you do it all in the comments below.

If this review made you want to read the book, pick up a copy of Living and Sustaining a Creative Life from Powell’s Books. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.

Adapting Kafka’s The Trial for the Western Stage

April 28, 2013 by Isla McKetta, MFA 6 Comments

When I read that New Century Theatre Company was staging Kenneth Albers’ adaptation of Franz Kafka’s The Trial in the former INS building, I knew I had to go. When I read The Trial, one of the things I loved most about it was how well it captured the arbitrariness of living in a totalitarian society. Despite having lived under a dictatorship, I’m pretty ensconced in this Western world of choice, and when I read the description of the play, I wondered how well things like the pre-play “processing” we were to undergo would go over with a Western audience.

The Processing

Before the play, we lined up in the hall of the INS building. Loudspeakers repeated and repeated a loop of information about the play and one of the actors told us repeatedly how long the play was and how impossible it would be to get out once we were seated (so we should go to the bathroom now). Despite having been to the bathroom twice, I felt antsy. Other patrons began whispering rumors of what it was going to be like inside. I wondered what the processing would entail. I worried I wouldn’t be seated next to my husband. I thought they might take away the water bottle of the man in front of us.

Once we were admitted to the anteroom, it did seem like we might be separated and I was pretty sure this was the last play my husband would ever see with me. The doors to the theater swung open and three impossibly tall girls with plastic smiles and white lab coats led us inside. Disorientation achieved. The seats were steeply stacked like a series of three jury boxes around a red curtain. They were difficult to enter and I couldn’t see the exit. I was starting to worry about the fire code. Immersed in an inescapable system. The one feeling they didn’t achieve was arbitrariness. My husband and I discussed this at length and wondered if this was to avoid setting the audience against the actors to start. Despite the fact that I do prefer to sit with my husband, we both wished they had pushed it further.

Has the Play Already Begun?

As we sat in uncomfortable chairs waiting for the play to begin, we watched those three girls seat other patrons. One was rigidly polite. Another started out instructive and began getting testy. I liked watching her scold people as they failed to follow her instructions. I also liked how easy it was to make eye contact with patrons in other sections. We were complicit in enjoying the disorientation of those who did not yet understand the system. But we were all victims of the syrupy sweet soundtrack on a short repeat cycle. It was maddeningly effective.

Behind the Red Curtain

A man stands stunned in lamplight. Two men stare at him. He cannot understand that he is being arrested or why. Darragh Kennan is believably confounded as Joseph K. And Alex Matthews and Michael Patten are deliciously obtuse as Willem and Franz. So far, we’re pretty faithful to the book. In fact, the adaptation is relatively faithful throughout with only a few changes of note. Joseph’s three secretaries (Sydney Andrews, Sara Mountjoy-Pope, and Greta Wilson) add a conspiratorial note and a lot of sex appeal to the play. I loved watching them cross their legs and rotate their right feet in unison as they watched Joseph suffer.

Amy Thone as Joseph’s lawyer recalled the best of His Girl Friday’s Rosalind Russell and her incessant motoring around the stage (literally) made it feel like she was wrapping Joseph up in the case for easy delivery. Joseph pings back and forth between the gentle solace offered by Aunt Clara (Marty Mukhalian) and the conspiratorial maliciousness of Frau Brubach (Tonya Andrews) and allows himself to get more deeply entrenched as he is seduced by Leni (Hanna Mootz) and Block (David S. Klein). I especially enjoyed Alexandra Tavares as Titorelli. She delivered doublespeak like Big Brother was really watching. Another favorite was MJ Sieber as the Priest who shows Joseph how he orchestrated his own demise.

Can Kafka be Translated for a Western Theater Audience?

Absolutely. Overall the play was amazing. The use of noir-inspired lighting and the way some action was condensed into dance-like interludes were both brilliant choices by director John Langs. I felt Leni’s part was under-written and the scene with the architect went on a few beats too long. I was glad Albers chose to shift a few of the key roles in the novel to be played by women.

Having lived in Eastern Europe where a smile is a commodity not to be wasted, I was surprised at how smiles (menacing though they were) were used throughout this staging. I wonder if that was to make it more relatable to a Western audience. After I got over my own bias, it worked and that fake-happy was carried through in other ways as well. I expected to feel more connection with the INS building, but in the end, the play was strong enough without it.

The show runs through May 5. It’s sold out, but if you show up for the waiting list, you have a decent chance of getting in. Try it. The play lends a whole new angle to Kafkaesque.

Regarding the Bosnian War with Susan Sontag

June 12, 2012 by Isla McKetta, MFA Leave a Comment

Most of the roofs in Dubrovnik are bright red–a sign that they have been recently replaced.

Of the Bosnian War, I remember only images on CNN of the bombing of Sarajevo. My excuse is that I was a teenager, though I lived for a year in Eastern Europe during the height of the war and should have been more aware. I later studied it in Political Science, but I could never find an entry point to start to relate to it on a human rather than academic scale. Even Dubravka Ugrešić’s The Ministry of Pain felt abstract despite her incredible depiction of the war’ effects on one person. Reading more relatable books by Ismet Prcic and Saša Stanišić in preparation for our trip humanized the war, but the former Yugoslavia still seemed like a far off place. As Susan Sontag writes in Regarding the Pain of Others, “The memory of war…is mostly local.”

Flying from Paris to Zagreb, I wondered at the large, orderly collections of dark rectangles on the ground. They were too small to be cars. As the plane descended, I realized they were all near churches and that they must be graves. They looked so fresh and plentiful. I started to feel leaden.

I tried to forget about the graves as we flew to Dubrovnik and entered the beautiful, walled old Town. For a couple of days I was a right good tourist exploring the sights and spending money. But I kept looking for signs of the war. The guidebook said the only evidence we would see of the bombing of Dubrovnik was the new red tile roofs. It wasn’t until walked the walls that I saw that most of the roofs were the bright red of new tile. Almost no building was left untouched. I wanted to think that there were other reasons for some of the new roofs, but there were so many of them…I was curious and I wanted to know more, but I didn’t know who to ask and I didn’t want to be rude. I wanted to see the place for more than its war experiences, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

On our final day in Dubrovnik, we turned from sunny Stradun street with its masses of tourists down a narrow side street and stepped into War Photo Limited. There were three main exhibits that day: Blood & Honey by Ron Haviv, Srebrenica Genocide 11/07/95 by Tarik Samarah, and Bosnians by Paul Lowe. Wandering though those exhibits, I saw images of the aftermath of the Bosnian War: mass graves, survivors being DNA tested to identify corpses, and bones that no one bothered to bury. Sontag had seen these photos. She wrote broadly about images from the Bosnian War and specifically about Ron Haviv’s image of a Serb kicking a Muslim woman’s corpse.

There are images that recur in conflict and thus war photography—starving people and mass graves are all too common. Sontag writes “shock can become familiar” and this exhibit contained some images familiar from conflicts past, including images of dolls as a metaphor for the loss of innocence. I had seen images like these from World War II and Viet Nam but they didn’t speak to the unique character of the conflict and I wished I could have learned more from them. In contrast, one of the more affecting images was of a decomposing corpse and the Koran that had fallen from his hand. The image spoke specifically to this one conflict and to the young man who was torn from his home and who was likely praying when he was murdered. I thought of the families detailed in Prcic and Stanišić’s books who had been forced out of their homes and then murdered. One of my favorite photographs showed people congregating for water outside bombed out buildings. I thought of Prcic’s hero and the lengths he went to in order to shower to impress a girl and how Prcic found a way to marry the perfect detail in a story with something that spoke to the larger condition.

When I saw an image of an American law enforcement agent searching a field for graves, I found my connection to this story. Madeleine Albright wrote in her autobiography about her disappointment with the way the US handled the Bosnian War—with how long it took us to get involved. I don’t advocate for widespread US intervention, but I do think the world community has a moral imperative to intervene when civilians are being killed. When genocide is being committed. After all the time I spent reading about the Holocaust as a child, I thought it couldn’t happen again, that we knew better. Part of what I was experiencing in Croatia was disbelief that it did. In Bosnia, Rwanda, Syria, and so many more places.

Sontag writes, “One should feel obliged to think about what it means to look at” war photography and I have been thinking about my motives. The exhibit did not quell my curiosity. I still examined buildings for bullet holes and wondered about the story and family behind each burned out house. In fact the exhibit made me more curious, but it also framed that curiosity. Instead of worrying about the base nature of humans, I am focusing on the history. I am learning where places like Vukovar, Tuzla and Srebrenica are on the map. I am thinking about the wonderful, friendly people we met throughout Croatia and Slovenia and about how they are like people everywhere. It’s far too easy to watch war on the TV or even to change the channel. Somewhere inside I have always been terrified that war could happen to me and I think that is the real reason I have disengaged. But the Bosnian War is no longer a war that happened somewhere to someone else. War can happen anywhere to anyone. I hope never to experience it, but I’m no longer going to pretend it couldn’t happen to me. I’m not going to let my fear be an excuse for ignoring what is happening in the world.

If this review made you want to read the book, pick up a copy of Regarding the Pain of Others from Powell’s Books. Your purchase keeps indie booksellers in business and I receive a commission.