Owning It

As the result of various book and design projects I've done in the last several months, I've had a bunch of my friends and various strangers on the Internet tell me that the stuff I'm producing is beautiful. This makes me all squirmy because I haven't yet truly come to think of myself as a book artist or (certainly not) a designer, yet. I know it says that on my website, and over there on the sidebar you can see some of the stuff I've done, but I don't feel I own the title "book artist" yet, the way I own "writer" or "poet." I haven't got nearly enough of a track record in this field, having only made a few books at this point. And I don't feel like I've mastered the craft, or even its rudiments. I am, in fact, very much a beginner, a dilettante.

And boy do I feel that way when I look at other people's work. Especially people like Judith Hoffman. I ran across her blog on one of the Google alerts I have set up, and then went to her site. She works in both metal and paper, making jewelry and books, as well as jewel-like books. One piecein particular completely knocked my socks off, for several reasons. Like many artist's books, it stretches the definition of "book" but without actually straining it. There isn't any text in this book (and not much in her other books), but it tells a story, regardless, through both symbolism and design. She's obviously a master craftsman, as well. Go take a look at the rest of the photos for this book, The Fish Who Swims In the Sky, and you'll see what I mean. And browse the rest of her site, too. It's well worth a visit.

Judith's books  are all not only amazingly beautiful, but have that extra indefinable something that makes you go, "oh yeah, that's art." It's that last quality I'm not sure about in my own work. Part of it has something to do with imagination, which I've often admired in my friend Marcia as well. I'm awed at the quality and quantity of ideas people I think of as artists produce. Part of it is harder to define, as per a conversation Jen and I had over the weekend (and touched on in an earlier post at her blog) about the difference between scientific imaging (which can be extraordinarily beautiful) and art that references scientific data, like Nash Hyon's. The example I used was the difference between the Hooke's drawings of his micrographic observations and Leonardo's anatomical studies. They're both beautiful—Hooke's in the precise detail, Leonardo's in the flow of line—but only Leonardo's feel like art. What makes them art is harder to define, at least for me. Then there was the loaded conversation started over on the Art Biz Blog on the same topic.

There's a measure of innate talent in making art too, I believe, in the way I believe there's a measure of talent in fine writers. It's true that you can teach just about anyone to write serviceably well or the skills of drawing or painting or other techniques of art, but what elevates the mere practitioner to the artist is more than just a level of skill. It's a sense of beauty, imagination, and personal vision wrapped up in emotion. That's as close as I can get to defining it. And I don't yet know if my work has or will have or can have that quality, whatever it is. I guess I'll just have to keep learning and making more books and find out. At some point, I hope I'll be able to look at a piece or a group of pieces and say, "yeah, I'm a book artist" and own it the way I own my poetry and fiction. And in the meanwhile, at least I've given some pleasure and brought some beauty to somebody.

Comments

[Alyson B. Stanfield]

Thanks for the mention, Lee. Yes, I love questions like "what is art?" I can lose a whole lot of friends with my opinions, but it's a fun topic to consider--and one that all artists should consider. People ask that question all of the time. I've been living a life in the arts for more than 20 years and I still don't have the answer.