I am always unsure about how much to say about a painting.
I am motivated to paint by so many things. Sometimes, the motivation is purely visual: I am attracted to a particular pattern of colours, the light or perhaps the shapes I see. Other times the painting is born of an idea. In this case, I can spend a great deal of time thinking before I even begin.
I am really only interested in one thing in my art: exploring what it means to be human. I am drawn to contrast and irony, sometimes humour and issues that affect us all. My paintings are often questions. They are almost never answers.
But whatever the idea or motivation, the result must be visual. The goal is always to create something compelling to look at…..something to draw you in and make you look. Sometimes I am more successful at this than other times.
I am always unsure about how much to say about a painting.
When someone looks at a piece of art, they bring with them their own life experience, which affects what they see and what it means to them. If I provide an explanation or story, I’m not sure if it enhances the experience or whether it narrows the meaning down so that it is no longer relevant or interesting to the viewer. Because ultimately, all paintings are really about the painter, in the same way that all stories are really about the story-teller. It’s not that I want all my paintings to be about me. It’s just that everything I paint is the result of how I view the world: it’s a view of things through the filter of who I am and my experiences. It can’t be any other way.
I don’t think I understood this at first. I don’t think I understood why exhibiting my work made me feel like my skin had been peeled back and my insides exposed.
I hope you are not too disappointed by this…..that I’ve somehow let you down. You probably thought I was telling the stories of the people I paint. I would love to do this, if I could. But I would never assume that I could tell you someone else’s story…..that I could begin to know what it’s like to walk a mile in their shoes. I can only tell you about my experience of meeting them. I can only tell you what I saw, what I sensed, what they said….or didn’t say to me, the feeling I took away from our meeting.
I know….its not much. But it’s all I have.
And so…I am always unsure about how much to say about a painting.
But…….if I were going to tell you a story about a painting, I would tell you this:
In the painting called “Fayoum Baker”, the young man had a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his sleeve and one tucked behind his ear. He was the epitome of ‘cool’ and I think was trying to fix me with a steely gaze to prove it. But….what you can’t see…..what is not included in the painting is this. In his hand, he held, not a knife or a revolver or a big stick but…..a bag of icing. I feel a great affection for him because of this.
I tried to paint his façade of ‘cool’ but it didn’t work.
The icing came out in his eyes.
If I were going to tell you a story about a painting, I would tell you this:
In the painting called “Dahab Woman”, the word dahab means gold. When I met this woman, we had only recently moved to Egypt and I didn’t know a word of Arabic and she, of course, knew no English. We were in her home…..a great sprawling house in a tiny village. She…..a domineering woman; a mother; grandmother of a great sprawling family. I was a little afraid of her….and also impressed.
In Egypt, there are many traditions that accompany a marriage. One of the requirements of the groom is to provide the bride with a sizable amount of gold in the form of 22ct gold bangles as well as earrings and necklaces. This jewelry is the property of the woman. Even in the case of divorce, it is hers to keep. It provides her with a form of security.
I was wearing a necklace made of glass beads that Calla had lovingly strung together for some past ‘Mother’s Day’. The woman looked at it with disgust. She pulled back her headscarf to show me her large, hammered gold earrings. She gestured to my neck and my bare wrists and ears. And in non-verbal language (since we had no common ground here), she fairly yelled (and I’m sure I understood her explicably), “where on earth is your gold, woman!”
Clearly, she was not impressed with my lack of security.
I am always unsure about how much to say about a painting.
What do you think? Should I tell you a story?
June 17/07, Cairo
