What's My Motivation?

Last night I was typing up pages for a new book, and I started thinking about why I was making it. I mean beyond the reason that I had an idea, and I like making books. I was thinking about why I like making books, why I like making art, and as you can imagine, it led me to think about why I do anything at all. Yeah, I know, how existential. But seriously. Do I make books because it makes me feel good? Because I want people to read them and respond positively, and that makes me feel good? Because I want to change people's minds? Because I want to change the world? Because I think beautiful things improve the world? What exactly is my motivation? Is it purely aesthetic? Is it ethical?

I've read and seen plenty of interviews with artists, and common responses to questions about why they make art are "I can't help it; I'm just compelled to; I have to; I must;" etc, or something similar. They answer the question without answering the question, and rarely follow up with an explanation. Why can't they help it? Why do they feel compelled? Why must they? Just because an artist can't recognize a deeper motivation (or doesn't care to reveal it) doesn't mean that it doesn't exist. I, for one, am not content feeling obliged to do something without understanding why.

Letterpress business card template for my 8 year long project, Ferrum Wheel

I'm a firm believer that all cultural/artistic production involves an expectation of audience even if that audience is the artist himself (see: Henry Darger, even Andy Goldsworthy) or convenes posthumously (see: too many artists/authors to name, but famously, Emily Dickinson). Simply by virtue of being perceiveable/conceivable in the universe, an artistic object/event (or concept thereof) not only expects an audience but requires it. Artist thinks artistic concept: he is necessarily there thinking it, he is his own audience. Artist makes index of concept: again, at least, he is his own audience (now conceptually and perceptually), but more than likely, the audience will extend beyond himself. From this we can assume it is inevitable that conceiving art, creating art, conceiving art that is perceived, perceiving art that is conceived, or perceiving art that is created must make the artist feel a certain way. And if audience is unavoidable, then it must play an integral role in how the artist feels.

Let's take each of those in turn. How does conceiving art make me feel? When I had the idea for this book, I felt excited, challenged, hopeful, nervous, anxious. How many of these feelings are dependent on audience? All of them. I was excited to produce something (an art object) that others (and myself) would see. I felt challenged because the creation of the object always involves some level of compromise between the imagined object and the actual thing, and I try reconcile the two as best I can. I felt hopeful because reconciling the imagined and the actual seemed relatively possible. I also felt hopeful for a positive response (from myself and others). I felt nervous and anxious about an inability to reconcile the imagined and the actual, and a possible negative reaction (from myself and others). All that before I even make a single thing. The only thing clear at this point is that even conceiving art makes me feel a lot of conflicting things. Now since it's impossible for me to conceive of something that I cannot perceive, it's safe to say that I've already perceived the conception of the art object I've conceived. This perception (thinking about my thoughts) doesn't necessarily add much in the way of what I feel, except maybe make me a little more critical of my idea. Creating the art object itself does, however, generate a new batch of feelings, including, but not limited to: frustration, determination, celebration, etc. Many of these feelings are wrapped up in the struggle to apply my physical skills in such a way as to produce precisely the object I envision. When I'm applying my hands and tools in this focused way I feel determined, when it doesn't turn out I feel frustrated, when it does I feel celebratory. Finally, when I perceive art that has been created (by my hand or otherwise), I feel intrigued, contemplative, joyous, disappointed, confused, etc. This, by far, is the most complicated and controversial aspect of artistic production because (unless the artist is the sole audience) it involves any number of people and any number of various reactions. I hardly have time to go into the whole history of aesthetics and criticism, but suffice it to say it's a contentious issue. I'm just trying to figure out why I make art.

I think this cycle of emotions is a key to why I make things. The emotions above are exclusive to me and are by no means representative of how other artists feel when they produce art, but the cycle is not. I think every artist goes through a similar process although the emotions may be different. It's this dynamism, this artificially generated interplay between risk and reward that draws me in - that maybe draws us all in. The velocity (and intensity) with which we experience these emotions is dependent on the length (and intensity) of the project (from a doodle on a notebook to a ten-year outdoor construction piece). It's an autogenous storm, one we stand at the center of, drift in and out of, and sometimes lose our way in.

Maybe if I had to answer the question about why I made art, I would say: Because I'm not just making art, I'm making all the things that go along with it. I'm instigating all those ideas, emotions, and criticisms, in myself and others, the whole cloud of dust.

I know this is a cursory examination, and I'm sure I'll be coming back to it over time. And I know my final statement is just as vulnerable to my earlier criticism of other artist's answers: one could easily ask me why I like instigiating all those ideas, emotions, etc. I think the answer might be a combination of something ethical and aesthetic - like maybe I think it's the Right thing to do...maybe more on that tomorrow.

Check out Ferrum Wheel at www.ferrumwheel.blogspot.com