I still struggle to get myself to show off my work when it has my name attached. Signing up for galleries, being chosen by faculty, and entering contests are always something I typically deny. It was only recently where I’ve been pushing to put myself out there and exploring why I never put myself into the spotlight. While I have been able to explain most of the reasons through personal philosophy explained in previous entries (Entry No. 24 and No. 4), I’ve been encouraged by mentors in my life to disconnect myself from my work as a way to help me gain more courage to present it. Yet I struggle to find reasons why I should disconnect myself, especially in pieces that are much more personal.
Even though I recognize that an artistic object in its base materiality is an abstract, contextless, and even a useless “being”, through the immaterial context of an object being a conduit for human connection it has given itself more psychological weight. The artistic object has no conscience, it has no fear of death or destruction, but there is an existence of a self through its creator imprinted onto it through its creation.
By viewing the object and given the immaterial layer atop of it, you are no longer seeing a contextless piece but instead a culmination of work, effort, and internal thoughts while making said object. The brief period of time has been immortalized and even commodified as a summary of what the artist was going through in the society that the artist has existed in. A kind of self, not a holistic self (as the true self is unknowable) but a more personal internal expression given physical form compared to an external perception of personhood from a stranger. A kind of object where its creator had control over its narrative and its expression as a reflection of themself and their experiences.
In a personal sense, as the object is an expression of an internal self, this self reflects someone who has experienced pain or joy, making it an extreme overhumanization. In the end, this is a contextless object given context through immateriality, where I the creator have overhumanized and overemphasized my efforts into its creation making it impossible to not see too much of myself as the object. I believe that as long as there is a kind of me that exists, there exists a me that has suffered. I feel as if sadness and tragedy has stained every inch of my being, everything I touch and everything I make is now tainted with the same kind of sadness.
Suffering has become so integral to my identity it feels as if there is a moral obligation to how my work is presented where the idea of immortalizing or subjecting my suffering to the masses where the people interpret my work as entertainment is horrifying. It scares me even further when people misinterpret the object I have created because in a way it is misinterpreting my intentions, my identity, and my past. A physical conduit of my internal thoughts have become commodified through external interpretation and simplification.
Of course this kind of thinking is heightened when I’m in a more depressive episode. Since I am in a more stable mood, I can see myself getting the courage to present my work. Ironically I'd feel much more comfortable presenting my work through street art if anything. A kind of presentation of anonymity where people tend to accept its visual absurdity that does not demand the artist to be seen, does not demand the artist’s real name be exposed, and does not demand the work’s context be revealed. Any papers pasted onto the wall are inevitably scraped off. Any cheap paints are easily painted over, or faded through the elements. The aspect of my work being able to age and die liberates me in a way where my suffering is promised not to be immortalized.
If I ever were to present my work in a formal gallery, it would have to be either deeply disconnected from who I am as a person or in a way that to present my work where my suffering is not the final message but instead a statement of my endurance and celebration in spite of it; arguably creating a much more compelling narrative. Maybe it’s just my age giving me a kind of edge, and maybe this will be something that I can successfully grow out of.