Creation: How an Art Piece Can Explain a Writing Thing
I wrote a version of this piece back in 2012, when I first began painting. The original idea was not only to chronicle a piece of work, but tie it to a larger theme… that is, creation is often blind to outcome. I didn’t quite get to the second part in my first attempt, so I thought I might recreate the piece again, this time with a little more focus.
Creation is the act of making, inventing, producing or bringing something into the world that did not exist. Art–whether a painting, a photograph, a book, a poem–is a creation. They can be separate, but behind it all is one and the same: the creator.
Case in Point
The following piece of art started out one way with one idea, but ended up very different. (You can click on each picture for a larger view of what I have sometimes called “the travesty”.)
The original idea for this particular painting came while I sat outside thinking about the cold. I had a vision during a particularly cold chill and out came something with water, rocks and sky.
Once I stepped back and looked at what I’d painted, I decided to add a little detail: different clouds, a little grass and a lighthouse. At this point you might be saying to yourself “I think Smurfs live there,” and I wouldn’t blame you. Something was wrong with the dimensions, but I didn’t know what.
After a very poor attempt at bushes in the foreground, I decided a tsunami should come and wipe out the shore. I still didn’t know what was up with the dimensions, but I at least no one would see my bushes. I added a lighthouse keeper…house to see if that would help, but all it did was create another place for the Smurfs to live.
At last, it dawned on me (thanks to my wonderful wife): the main rock looked small. So I spent about an hour adding shadows and highlights until the rock looked more like a cliff and the lighthouse was more in proportion to its environment. I also got mad at my clouds and wished them away (with paint). To add more detail, I dropped in a few more buildings, then decided one of them should have a blue roof. Why? I don’t know.
Okay. Now I was getting somewhere. After a Bob Ross moment, I added some better looking clouds and more of the “town” that was magically appearing in my head. I thought copper would be a good color for one of the domes, so I added that in then made the lighthouse look like a candy cane.
Okay. So there’s a town, a lighthouse, and waves crashing against the shore. What if the sea was a little choppy? And what if I added a really distant mountain to the background? I added more buildings (eventually I think I’ll stop and say there are enough houses for all 99 Smurfs) and then chopped up the sea. The mountain/island in the distance didn’t come out the way I intended, but it’s there. (No, really…behind the clouds).
You’d think I was done, wouldn’t you? Well, I wasn’t. I spent a good amount of time analyzing the waves and clouds inside my head. Again, they looked out of proportion. So, the next step would have been to make smaller brush strokes in the water and redo my clouds.
However, art escapes; it is never really done.
So it’s for sale. Done. Case closed.
How Does This Apply to Writing
One of the joys of writing is the ability to change things in the middle, to go a different direction than intended. Both painting and writing are outcomes of the process of creation, therefore I see parallels.
Castles is a good example of something that changed.
Castles is a fictional memoir about a girl with scissors. Of course it’s more than that, and anyone who has read it knows what I’m talking about. But the story didn’t start out that way, and it was never intended to go past 4000 words.
I wanted to write a short story about dust storms and ended up writing a novel about life from the point of view of a person who suffers from schizophrenia.
Every time I pick up a brush, the outcome is a variation of the original idea. The same thing happens every time I pick up a virtual pen and write a story.
My guess is that any writer or painter will agree that the same thing happens to them. Because both acts–the painting, the writing–are outcomes of creation and creation is blind to what is eventually created.
