There was discussion in our final crit and presentation about individuality and collectivism. In what can be called my ‘creative practice’, (I much prefer ‘making art’ or ‘working on a project’, this encouraged term carries some unwanted haughtiness) I try to draw a boundary between the art I create for me and the art I create academically. Aligning with a historical or contemporary artistic tradition is less than encouraged in the university, research-driven arena, where there’s an implicit expectation to independently engage with, assimilate, the cutting edge.
I find it extremely difficult to nakedly express my resistance to required sophistry and my partiality to the generic and the genre convention, to the naïve and the oft-explored. Especially perhaps to the unfashionable. It could well be that it isn’t for me to determine what is and isn’t fashionable in the art world, yet it’s arguable that romanticism and the sublime could firmly be on the list.
A large, undeniable interest that I make apparent in my work is the idea of the sublime. There is something cringeworthy in the figure of the nature worshipper; a touristic, shallow and fancifully self-inserted view of the world. Perhaps this is a product of the contemporary moment, as we all stare down the barrel of seemingly unavoidable ecosystem collapse. I am unsure if it is enough to state that I am not pluralistically, one-dimensionally ascribing myself to fawning nature worship, when I make work about the emotive power of the imagined mountain. Can I truly deny it? The truly great ecological poet and essayist Gary Snyder (1990, pp. 123) writes of Dōgen, Japanese Zen monk and his philosophic view of life and mountains; (preemptively I apologise for the length and number of references quoted in this post, but it feels wrong to butcher them)
‘The “Mountains and Waters Sutra” goes on to say:
All waters appear at the foot of the eastern mountains. Above all waters are all mountains. Walking beyond and walking within are both done on water. All mountains walk with their toes on all waters and splash there.
Dōgen finishes his meditation on mountains and waters with this: “when you investigate mountains thoroughly, this is the work of the mountains. Such mountains and waters of themselves become wise persons and sages” – become sidewalk vendors and noodle-cooks, become marmots, ravens, graylings, carp, rattlesnakes, mosquitos. All beings are “said” by the mountains and waters – even the clanking tread of a Caterpillar tractor, the gleam of the keys of a clarinet.’
I appreciate that a meditation is not so concise or pinpoint in terms of detailing an idea or argument in my blog, but I feel that that is the beauty of it. Snyder’s additions and commentaries expound upon Dōgen’s writings in such a lucid, expressive way. It makes me think of the famous jump cut in ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’. All things lead to, and enable, all other things. To make artworks about nature, about mountains, is a result of the work of mountains. Like many Buddhist Zen meditations, it presents so simple an idea, yet it continually unfolds and blossoms in your mind.
I am even given to say that I am unsure if sound art can truly express a meditation such as this. Sound is so wildly subjective, untethered to unrevealed contexts. If I have learned one solid lesson from this year, it’s that pure sound alone can really struggle to relay intent. I think that’s also why I want to experiment with when to sever the acousmatic, suddenly shine rays of light through the dark canopy. I know that I am lost very quickly in the acousmatic, glitchy soup without a handhold of some kind, be that reference material, genre. Maybe that says something about my own awareness, knowledge or willingness to be led into an uncertain, individual world.
The romanic tradition is deeply intertwined with individuality; the unique, reflective experience, and yet to ascribe to a pathway in the contemporary world is somewhat unheard of. Friedrich saw the instinctual, childlike inner artistic voice, its potential piousness, as the godly within us. Can I act and create romantically, then deny it by constructing an opposing philosophy?
A key encapsulation of the spiritual sentiments and influences of my piece is Caspar David Friedrich’s resonant 1818 painting, ‘Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog’. Despite the posthumous analysis and reassessment, lauding the work as a definitive masterpiece of the romantic era, his work has been investigated as a potentially problematic example of the ‘masculine genius’ figure, and Hitler’s weaponised, distorted endorsement of Friedrich’s legacy as a quintessential symbol of mythic Germanic nationalism muddied the intents of romanticism further. I have to believe that a spiritual investment in and appreciation of the natural world can help us in the present moment.
In his own words, ‘who wishes to know what alone is beautiful and who is able to teach it? And who can draw borders as to what is spiritual nature and make rules for it? Oh you dry leather average people, you always contrive rules!’ There’s the sting of Friedrich’s own institutional rejections and dismissals here, but there’s also a great sense of his boundless idea of nature’s spiritual freedoms and depths. It’s terrible divinity, and potential ways to meet with it.
I feel also a grudging kinship with Friedrich’s use of cyclical, recurring subject matter. In some respects, I feel that I can do no more with the inspirations and interests I laid out in this project. To mine them more in a field where the core must be explained, justified and textually supported feels like regression, I suspect. Still, I am drawn to them in my personal sensibilities. Koch (1988, pp. 7) details how ‘C.D. Friedrich’s art hardly varied during the course of his life. Even his first work which became known to a large public, “The Cross in the Mountains”, conveys a sense of natural mysticism and religious background. The construction of the landscape, the choice of staffage and the inclusion of people are always carried out following the same rules. A development cannot be seen. The result is an extraordinary perfection and harmony in the pictures.’ To some degree I believe this is hyperbole; despite a very clear confidence in technique and his interests, the varying hues and subjects of his work belie more than a dogged fixation. The point I see and try to bring to light is that faith in an idea can carry the artist for a lifetime. I am not saying that the conceptual frameworks I assembled for this project will last forever, but I cannot deny their continual resurfacing throughout my art life. Metal, the mountain myth, weather, our place in the landscape, the simulacrum, the romance of it all; these things will continue for me.
Bibliography:
Snyder, G. (1990) The Practice of the Wild. Berkeley: Counterpoint Press
Koch, H. (1988) Caspar David Friedrich. Kirchdorf: Artline Editions